And Winter Fell
by andyoureturntome
Summary: Sansa escapes with Sandor during Blackwater, Gendry is with Arya for the Red Wedding, Bran and Rickon travel to the Wall, and the Starks try to find their way back to one another again. Extremely AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so I don't own this...GRRM does, and he's great even if he does hate fanfiction! This is my first time doing this, though I have been reading other fics for a few months now. I'm obsessed and I have a lot of feels, so they're going right here. Characters are aged up so I feel less creepy. Sansa is 17 and Sandor is in his 30s. Obvs a SanSan shipper right here. I ship Gendrya pretty hard, too, so don't worry, they'll appear soon enough!**

**I stray pretty majorly from the book and show canon, so be prepared or just bail now if that's not what you're looking for! As you'll be able to tell, I changed how a lot of scenes and dialogue unfold so they better fit my vision. Which brings me to my next point...I wrote this solely for my own pleasure and my own cathartic needs. I don't gain anything from this other than the satisfaction of seeing my couples together.**

**Oh, and there are probably (definitely) spoilers for the books and show.**

* * *

War and death raged. Men fought and men died. He was used to all of this. He accepted this. He cut down men with ease, taking pleasure in the killing. He reveled here on the battlefield where his violence was expected and his ugliness rewarded. He urged on the cowards around him, galvanizing them into action. He charged forward without hesitation or fear. He did not fear death; it was an old friend of his. Death did not lie about what it was; it was an inevitability. It meant to claim him—meant to claim them all—one day, and he meant to help it in its noble cause by offering up as many victims as it would take before it took him.

He fought with certainty and cruelty, extinguishing lives with no pause. He cut through men as though they were nothing. The looks of fear on their faces stirred contempt within him. They were all weak. His blood quickened with the thrill of the fight and the victory of the kill. There was no side but his own. He fought for no man. The opposing forces surged, their numbers seemed insurmountable. He continued forward, teeth bared, unable to sate his bloodlust. A man tumbled before him, the same look of fear on his face as the blade came plummeting toward him.

Then, the sky exploded.

The sword slowed enough for his victim to escape, but he wasn't paying attention now. For the first time in a long time, fear flooded him as his mouth and eyes fell agape with horror against a wall of fire. He could feel the terror rippling through men on both sides as the wildfire spilled from seemingly everywhere and threatened to consume them all. He did not fear death, but he did fear Hell, and he was in the deepest pit of it.

Cursing, he spun away and blundered through men. He struggled to gasp in thick air polluted with fire and death as he staggered back to the castle. As he gazed up at it, it shimmered in liquid unreality. The fire drove him senseless and pushed him over the edge. He fell deaf to opposing shouts and accusations of cowardice and retreated, tail between his legs.

* * *

High above the fighting, Sansa Stark prayed. She was used to fear. Since arriving in King's Landing, she had been acutely aware of the dangers lurking in every corner and the evil seeping out of every pore. It had been building up and closing in around her for months, culminating in the beheading of her father. It made her sick to think of it, but that was nothing compared to the sickness she was feeling now. There would be no victory for her either way. If Joffrey won, she would be forced to marry him, and bear his children and abuses for years to come. If Stannis won, Ilyn Payne would kill her. Sansa could not decide which fate was worse.

Cersei watched her, the planes of her face etched with cruelty and beauty. Sansa shivered as she averted her gaze. Around her, women cried in earnest, and Sansa longed to join in. Panic gripped her heart and held her breath hostage. The sounds of battle were suddenly consumed by a massive eruption. Green flames poured out. The sounds of fighting seemed to grow louder. Confusion took over as chaos broke out. Lancel burst in, declaring their defeat and urging his queen to flee.

Sansa looked around. Cersei was gone, Tommen with her. Her heart leapt with hope. _Stannis won_, she thought to herself. She too, rushed from the now hysterical women and made for her room. Stannis would spare her, she was sure. As she opened the door, something felt off. The smell assaulted her first, the smell she associated with foulness; it was the smell of death. She could sense another presence in the room and she froze before the figure shifting in the dark.

* * *

Sandor Clegane lay prone on her bed. His senses were lost to liquor and fear. He had given himself over to them, no longer caring what became of the battle or himself. He had experienced precious little happiness in his life, and even less comfort. She could provide none of that, he knew, but she had stirred something within him that had provided glimpses of what it could be like. Instinct had driven him here more than anything else, and as he lay there, he surmised that he had wanted one last brush of contact with her.

Defeated for once, he gave himself over to the grief. He didn't know if it was real or imagined, but he could feel the heat of the fire pressing against him. He pictured the blood on his armor melting and running off of him, dirtying her sheets. He lost all sense of time and self, and when she first opened the door, he thought he'd dreamed her.

She stood silhouetted in the doorframe, her tall figure frozen. Sandor shifted around, preparing to move towards her, when she continued walking into the room. He paused, still caught off-guard by her presence. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she recognized him and let out a gasp. The shadows on his face rose and fell with the flames and twisted his scars into grotesque shapes. She stumbled back from him.

Anger ripped into his chest. Even now, she was more frightened of him than she was of anything else. Even as death and destruction blazed around her, what she still feared the most was him. He had sought her in his fear, and she had rejected him again. It was too much for him. He launched forward and grabbed her, pinning her to the bed, his knife at her throat. No sound came from her.

"Look at me, girl."

She dragged her clear blue eyes to his gnarled face.

"I'll have a song from you before I go." He applied slightly more pressure to the blade, but it was unnecessary.

Softly, she began the sing the Mother's Hymn in a sweet and trembling voice. He came unraveled as her tiny voice filled the room. Shame flooded through him. He relaxed his hold on the knife but not on her. She raised a quivering hand to his face, finding it wet with more than blood.

As her song came to an end, he moved his hands to her shoulders and lifted her to a sitting position. There were tears in her eyes yet to fall. Her hand was still upon his face, and he closed his eyes, savoring the contact. Their breaths came out ragged and choked with tears. She spoke suddenly, her voice quivering but her tone certain.

"You won't hurt me."

"No, Little Bird, I won't hurt you." Slowly, she brought her other hand to the knife he was gripping against her shoulder. Her tiny hand pulled at the weapon and he released it without resistance. She set it aside gently. He opened his eyes, forcing himself to look into hers. Her gaze held deep sadness but none of the fear usually reserved for him. He leaned in without realizing he was doing it, her beauty drawing him in. His defenses were down and his senses were dulled; he was only vitally aware of her. She blushed under his intense gaze and arched her back slightly, moving even closer to his face.

He longed to kiss her and was just about to act on the impulse when he suddenly came to himself and realized where they were. He stood up abruptly, leaving her unbalanced as he removed his support from her. She looked up at him in confusion, hurt blossoming across her face. She reached over and picked up the dagger, handing it to him wordlessly. He sheathed it and turned away from her.

"I'm leaving."

"Where will you go?"

He shrugged. "Any place that's not on fire." He darted a glance over his shoulder at her. She sat on the bed, small and frail, wrapped up in her sheets, tear streaks illuminated by the ungodly flames. His voice softened almost imperceptibly with his next words. "I could be persuaded to go North."

* * *

She trembled visibly, clearly at war with herself.

"Stannis has won. He will treat me honorably and return to me to my family." _He will end this nightmare_, she added silently.

The Hound snorted. He was laughing at her again. "Stannis will do whatever he bloody well pleases with you. Do you think he will set you free? Release you from your cage? No, Little Bird, the keys will only change hands. You will be trapped as ever."

She flinched away from his harsh words and his even harsher meaning. What he was saying couldn't be true. But The Hound had never lied to her before. He said he never would. Tears began to fall anew, and she felt wrenched between her two paths. She thought of her mother and Robb and how she ached to see them again. She tried to picture her life if she stayed in King's Landing. It painted a miserable picture. She hated the place, and the prospect of spending any more time here made her heart race in panic.

She looked uncertainly at the massive man standing in her chambers and felt her pulse slow. He was looking at her in earnest now, a strange sort of sincerity peeking out of his grim visage.

"I would protect you. I could keep you safe. No one will hurt you ever again, and if they do, I will kill them."

He meant it, she could tell.

"Why would you help me? You said yourself that you were no knight."

Anger flashed across his face again. "No," he agreed, "I am not." He ripped the white cloak from his shoulders and threw it to the ground as if to reinforce the assertion. His fury rolled off of him in waves, consuming him and terrifying her. It was too big to be contained by this little room. As she stared at him, she realized that he had never tried to be anything other than himself. He had always been truthful with her.

"Not all knights are true," she heard herself saying.

"The Little Bird repeats all that she hears."

"_You_ have been true."

He said nothing, but his eyes softened and his anger seemed to abate. She looked at him searchingly.

"Are you to be my sworn shield then?"

He came to kneel before her, placing his hand on her cheek in a surprisingly gentle gesture.

"Yes," he said simply. "Will you leave with me?"

She looked into his hard, grey eyes and nodded.

* * *

**I really feel better now that that's off my chest! It's probably terrible, but I had fun, so I guess let me know if you did, too! I might abandon Sandor and Sansa for a bit because Gendry and Arya are really begging for their story to be told, so they're probably up next. This is T for now. It will probably progress to M because I am shamelessly smutty.**

**A big thanks if anyone read! xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Aaaaaand I lied. This isn't Gendrya, but another SanSan. It felt too truncated to move away from them right away, but I can absolutely promise that a Gendry/Arya chapter will be for sure posted later on tonight.**

**Standard stuff...credits go to GRRM; I'm not doing this for profit!**

* * *

"Why are we going backwards?" He felt her gaze on his back as he prepared Stranger to resume their riding. Her tone was not unkind, just tired and confused. He stiffened all the same, the stress of the journey and the intensity of her presence gnawing at his patience.

He turned to regard the girl and tried to rein in his hostility. She had borne the hardship well; nary had a complaint left her lips in the last two days since they fled King's Landing. She sat at the base of a tree with her dirty and torn dress fanned around her and her hands folded prettily in her lap. She met his gaze evenly for a few minutes before closing her eyes and leaning against the trunk.

She hadn't slept in days, he knew. They had ridden through the night and the following day without pause as Sandor tried desperately to put as much space between them and King's Landing as possible. He had charged into the Kingswood, it being the easiest way out and a harder place to find them than the open road. He knew they were going in the wrong direction, but he also knew that had they headed straight for Riverrun, they would be far too easily caught.

This was the first time she had spoken to him since she had agreed to leave with him, and he was surprised to discover that he had missed hearing her voice. He surveyed her quietly. His gaze swept across her sweet and delicate features, and his eyes lingered on her long, white neck. He swallowed hard and turned back to Stranger.

"We have been travelling south all this time. Your mother and brother are up north, at Riverrun. You do want to return to them, girl, don't you?"

She dropped her head and nodded, gazing at her hands. He hadn't meant to be cruel, but he knew his words came out harshly anyway.

"Come," he barked, holding out his hand. She rose and took it, allowing him to lift her into the saddle before he swung himself up behind her.

* * *

As they rode at a slower, more cautious pace, Sansa allowed herself to doze against Sandor as his arms held her steady. She didn't know if it was a testament to her newfound trust in him or her extreme exhaustion, but either way, she felt secure enough to be lulled into a light sleep.

Some hours later, she awoke to find herself beneath yet another tree. _Sandor must have placed me here_, she realized. For some reason, she flushed when she thought of him wrapping his arms around her and lifting her to the ground. She looked around for him and found him a short ways away, patting Stranger as the destrier drank from the river.

She watched him curiously. He was the most gentle when he was with the great beast that stood at his side. _And when he was with her_. Though he was still rough when he spoke, he was not cruel with her. He had already saved her from the Lannisters, and now he was taking her back to her mother.

The ride out of King's Landing had been rough. People were running in blind panic. Sansa could still hear their screams when she closed her eyes. Sandor had ridden her bravely through it all as she clung tightly to him, tears pouring down her face the whole time. Seeing people tearing each other apart in the chaos had made her stomach turn over, and she had held Sandor more tightly. When they finally reached the outskirts of the city, Sandor had plunged them into the woods. Fear had so disoriented her that she had no concept of the direction they had taken.

They had ridden all through the night, and though her thighs had begun to chafe and bruise, she made no complaint. When the sun finally rose, she sighed in relief, thinking she would receive some respite from the brutal ride. Sure enough, Sandor had pulled the horse to a stop, allowing it to drink and graze. He had jumped down from the horse. When he turned, he placed his hands on her waist to help her down. Heat rushed to her face, and she had dropped her gaze and bitten her lip. As he had lifted her, her gaze rose to meet his. He had held her level with his face for a beat, and Sansa had leaned in to him. As she stared at him, she had felt the same rush of intense feelings as on the night of Blackwater. _When he had kissed her_.

The moment had passed, and Sandor had settled her on the ground. She had stumbled, and his strong arms had encased her and steadied her. She winced in pain and he walked her over to sit beneath a tree. He had given her some bread and water and watched as she ate.

"We're only resting for a minute, girl, so don't get too comfortable."

She had nodded, not wanting to be more of a burden than she already was, and bit back her tears. When he lifted her back on top of Stranger, she had winced. Sandor's furrowed brow raised slightly, and she saw a flash of concern in his eyes.

"I know it hurts, Little Bird, but I have to get you to safety. The further away we get, the less likely they are to find us. I'll sit behind you now."

She had nodded faintly, and he had brought his hand to gently graze her face. He got back in the saddle and they had ridden until nightfall. As Sandor had set up camp, Sansa hovered around, wanting to be helpful but unsure of what to do. He had laid out the bedroll and motioned for her to get in. There was only one, and she had been unwilling to take it from him. When she hadn't moved, he had shrugged and lain on the ground a little ways away from the bedroll.

He had fallen asleep almost instantly, while Sansa had stayed awake all night, finally giving in to her tears as she thought about all that she had lost. She had risen without complaint in the morning and watched Sandor pack them up. He told her they were headed out again, and pointed in the direction from which they came. She'd wondered why they were going backwards and had asked him without thinking.

He was annoyed, she could tell, but he had answered her civilly enough. She hadn't realized she was worried until she felt the relief of knowing he still meant to take her to her family. Now, as she sat secure in his arms, she felt foolish for worrying. Sandor had yet to try anything inappropriate with her. He was helping her. He would protect her no matter what. They rode in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Sansa's strayed yet again to all that she had lost. She remembered Joffrey's words to her shortly before he left for battle. Her eyes pooled again as she thought of what he'd told her.

The sun began to fall and Sandor pulled them to a stop. Se hastily wiped her tears. She knew they made him uncomfortable. She unfurled the bedroll as Sandor built a fire. He disappeared into the woods for a while and came back with some rabbits for them to eat.

After they'd eaten, they laid down near one another. Sansa wondered if she should tell Sandor what she'd learned from Joffrey.

"Sandor?"

He grunted. The words were forming on her lips, but she couldn't tell him. Not yet. It hurt too much to admit what she knew. Instead, she merely whispered, "thank you."

"Go to sleep, Little Bird."

Sansa forced her thoughts away from her sorrows and began to think of Sandor instead and when exactly she had stopped thinking of him as The Hound.

* * *

**Whew! So that was a bit of a labor, but it was a labor of love! I have to admit, I was nervous to start posting, but the reviews and the follows have been lovely, so THANK YOU!**

**Another chapter tonight y'all! See you then xxx**


	3. Chapter 3

**So I really shouldn't make promises. I know I said this chapter was going up last night, but I was having formatting problems, and the later it got, the harder it was for me to function, so I had a mini-rage breakdown and went to sleep. True story.**

**So here's the elusive Gendry and Arya chapter! I have written and rewritten this so many times because I really wanted to get the two of them just right. I am too emotionally invested in this…Arya is 16 and Gendry is 19/20. The two of them are still with the Brotherhood, and Hot Pie has just left them.**

**And all together now: credit goes to GRRM/I in no way profit from this!**

* * *

_Winterfell was burning. Ravens fell from the sky; their dead bodies piled into heaps of black feathers. Arya darted through the flames, the voices of her family members ringing in her ears. They were calling out her name, begging her to help them. Arya ran faster and more desperately. She was losing them, and she was afraid. "Not today," she whispered to herself._

_She squinted through the smoke, hearing Sansa's sobs and Rickon's shouts but seeing nothing. The gray air was thickening and growing darker. Blackness was surrounding her. The smoke closed in, and she felt like her chest was compacting. She became disoriented and hopeless. Her siblings' voices faded. There was only her and the blackness. She sank to the ground, letting herself be overcome by it._

_Finally, the smoke started to clear. Snow was falling. No, not snow. Ashes. Ashes were falling. She looked up and saw two charred bodies floating above her. They circled closer, dropping ashes on her all the while. She stood beneath them, transfixed in horror. Ashes fell faster and thicker, completely burying her. She clawed her way out of the mound only to find herself face to face with Joffrey. Sansa was sobbing on her knees behind him. The boy king was sneering at her, his smile twisting and distorting his features. He was holding a box, and she scrambled away from it, somehow knowing that she didn't want to see its contents. _

_He loomed above her, laughing cruelly. She tried to back away but tripped and fell to the ground. Joffrey was before her, and he opened the box, presenting her with her father's head. She stared into his lifeless eyes. She couldn't move, and she couldn't look away. She was absolutely paralyzed by the grotesque sight. She squeezed her eyes shut and begged for it all to end._

When she opened her eyes again, she found herself staring into Gendry's deep blue ones. They were looking at her, full of concern and fear. She knew she had been yelling out again without having to ask. Her breathing was labored, and she was covered in sweat. She was curled into a tight ball, her arms wrapped around her stomach. Gendry had pulled her into his chest and wrapped his large body around hers.

"Everyone is gone, Gendry," she whispered, reaching out and grasping his tunic. "They're either scattered or dead." She fisted the fabric, trying to ignore the shake in her hands. "And if they're not dead already, they probably will be soon. I'm all alone."

He removed one of the arms that was wrapped around her and reached out to cup her face.

"I'm here. You have me. You'll always have me. Okay?" His gaze was intense, and his eyes were earnest. She believed him, but she still wasn't completely comforted, and he could tell. She looked away.

"Hey." His voice was gentle as he stroked a thumb across her cheek. She gazed up at him, her grey eyes solemn. "Okay?" She still didn't answer. She could see the fear in his eyes growing. He gripped her face a little tighter and pulled it closer. She felt him press his lips into her forehead. They stayed like that for a while.

"Anyone can die." She pulled away from him, and he let her go. She stood and walked further into the trees, leaving Gendry lying alone on the ground. She knew he wouldn't follow her. He always knew what she needed. _He knows me too well_.

They had grown close during their travels, and she had gotten used to sleeping beside him. They had never shared more than the occasional comforting touch or embrace, and he usually was the one to initiate the contact. She had resisted it at first, unnerved by the closeness to his body, but she had since come to appreciate it. She had especially noticed it in the last few weeks, ever since Hot Pie had left them. They had needed each other more than ever as they realized that it was just the two of them left.

What she was most scared of was the emotional closeness they had achieved. She was fiercely loyal, and it had proven to be her undoing. The more she loved something, the more it hurt when it was ripped away from her. She stopped thrashing through the woods to lean against a tree. She closed her eyes, trying to quell her fears. She couldn't help but trust Gendry, couldn't help but need him.

He had kept her secret, and he had tried to protect her. _Not that she'd needed it_, she thought with a wry smile. He knew that she was more than capable of taking care of herself, but he was so stubborn, always looking out for her and involving himself in her business. _Stupid bull_. And yet, she couldn't help but think of him as _her_ stupid bull. The thought was both comforting and troubling.

* * *

He heard her reenter the clearing a couple of hours later. He pretended to sleep even as he felt her warmth beside him again. He didn't reach out to her, and he didn't push her to talk to him. He knew that she needed to return to him on her own terms. Strong as she was, she was still so brittle beneath the bravado, and he seemed to be the only one who noticed.

The other men treated her as though she was just another member of the Brotherhood. They didn't worry about her the way that he did. He knew that her fiery temper belied the vulnerabilities that lurked just beneath the surface.

He heard her breath even out and knew that she had fallen asleep. He opened his eyes to look at her. She had lain down so that she was facing him, he noticed, and for some reason, the thought pulled at his heart. Her peaceful face rippled with discontent, and she reached her arm out as though looking for something. He pulled her into him just as he had done when she was thrashing around earlier that night. She always settled when she was in his arms.

He smoothed her hair back from her face and tucked her head under his chin. She only fully gave into him when she was asleep. That was when he could truly hold her and when he could pretend—even just for a minute—that they belonged to each other. He felt her stir slightly, and he thought for a minute that she had reawakened. Then, he heard the words that always turned his blood cold.

"Joffrey. Cersei. Theon. Ilyn Payne. The Hound." She had whispered it so often before bed that she was now able to recite it in her sleep. She was a good person, he knew, but she was so driven by revenge that the obsession was going to prove self-destructive. There were moments where she so lost herself in the hate that he lost sight of her, too.

When she had learned of the loss of her little brothers, she had shut him out for days. That was the thing about Arya. She never did anything halfway. She loved passionately, fought tirelessly, and grieved intensely. He could try and shield her from almost anything, but try as he might, he couldn't protect her from herself.

* * *

The next morning, he woke early and disentangled himself from her. He wandered around camp, watching the men pack up. He sat down with some of those who were eating breakfast and was joined a few minutes later by Arya. She sat right up against him, her head grazing his shoulder every now and then as she ate.

He nudged her gently, and she jabbed him back.

"Morning, m'lady." She punched him hard that time.

"I told you not to call me that!" He laughed and elbowed her again.

"How are you, m'lady?"

She tried to throw another punch, but he blocked it. They jostled each other a little more before he lifted her up and threw her over his shoulder. She pounded his back and yelled at him, but he could hear her laughing.

He knew it was inappropriate for him to treat her so familiarly. She was a lady. No, she was a princess. Her brother was King in the North, and he was just a bastard. He figured there was no harm in indulging himself now. Beric said that they were taking her back to her mother and brother soon, and after that, he would likely never see her again. The Brotherhood had offered him a permanent position as a blacksmith with them, and he was pretty sure he was going to accept.

He hadn't been lying when he told her that she would always have him. She would, but he wouldn't always have her. She'd allowed herself to rely on him now, and he would always be there for her whenever she needed, but when she was back with her family, she wouldn't need him anymore. Already, his grip on her felt tenuous. Her grey eyes were always distant, always sad. She stiffened when he touched her and only relaxed fleetingly before pulling away again.

Even now, as he set her down, he watched as her happy and open expression became closed off as she composed herself. "How are you, really?" he asked, raising a hand to her cheek. She smiled slightly and shrugged. He didn't miss how she used the shrug as a way of answering his question and extricating herself from his touch.

Beric walked up just then. "Gendry, a word?" Gendry nodded at him. He gave Arya a half smile and patted her shoulder before following behind the older man. As he was turning away, he caught sight of her look of suspicion.

He hurried after the commander of the Brotherhood, already suspecting what this was about.

"Have you thought any more about our offer?"

"I have."

"And what have you decided?"

"I am very grateful, and I have decided…to accept." He couldn't understand why he was so hesitant. They were offering him a place to belong, and they were going to knight him. Beric nodded at him and moved away. Gendry turned to leave when Arya stepped into his path.

"What offer?"

"Arya. How long have you been there?"

"What offer?"

Gendry sighed. He knew he was going to have talk to her about this at some point, but he still wasn't prepared to face her.

"I'm going to blacksmith for the Brotherhood." Her face relaxed, and she nodded.

"You better get started, then. We're going to reach Riverrun fairly soon, and I'm sure the Brotherhood has a lot of work for you to get done before we leave them."

"Arya. I'm staying with the Brotherhood."

The look on her face tore him apart. For the briefest moment, he saw just how completely he had shattered her. Yet another person was leaving her. He longed to hold her, tell her that all of the cracks in her were mirrored in him. He wasn't leaving her because he wanted to. He was leaving because he couldn't stand to stay around long enough for her to leave him.

Her grey eyes, usually so dry, were now threatening to spill over with tears. He wanted to take it back, and he wanted to tell her that he would follow her anywhere. He stepped cautiously toward her, reaching out for her.

"Don't." Her eyes snapped dangerously, and her face hardened into the same distant mask.

"Arya, I have to stay with them. I don't belong anywhere else. These men, they're going to take me in. They'll be my _brothers_. I'll finally have a family of sorts. I've never had one before."

"I could be your family."

He shook his head. He couldn't figure out how to tell her that she _couldn't_ be his family no matter how much he wanted her to be. He loved her, he knew. He had loved her for a while, but he always had to be so careful around her. He was always terrified she would run off, and yet, he was the one abandoning her now.

"No. You would be m'lady."

She looked as if he had slapped her. He never hated himself more than he did at that moment.

"You're all I have. It was just us. It was always supposed to be just us! But I guess I'm sorry that I'm not enough for you."

She didn't understand. She could never understand. His heart was breaking as he stepped forward yet again. This time, instead of stopping him, she hurled herself at him and began punching and kicking him, angry tears streaming freely now. He didn't try to block her. He welcomed each hit, knowing that she could never even come close to doling out the pain he had inflicted upon her.

She finally exhausted herself and collapsed in his arms. He hugged her to him tightly, trying to communicate through touch just how much she meant to him. He broke the space between them slightly and grabbed her chin to pull her face up so he could see her.

Her eyes were dry and livid. She brought up her hand and slapped him across the face with her full force. He staggered backwards, and she pushed him to the ground. She turned on her heel and stalked back to camp. Gendry stayed down and wondered which of the two of them was the more broken.

* * *

**Okay, y'all, can we talk about how depresso that scene was? Ugh. It broke my poor little heart when the episode aired. I tried to do the characters justice while also explaining the emotional reasoning behind each of their responses.**

**I know where I want this to lead in the long run, and I have very specific endgames in mind for each of the characters. The only problem is, I'm so eager to get to their ending that I'm having a hard time not rushing the stuff in between! So I guess let me know if the pacing feels weird, and I'll see what I can do!**

**Thank you for bearing with me, and THANK YOU for the support. It's what keeps me going, especially during the more difficult parts to write! xxx**


	4. Chapter 4

**So the plan was for me to update this at least once a day. Then, I realized that I wanted to reread the books so I could do this justice. The books are long, (shocking information, I'm sure haha) however, and this is taking me longer than I anticipated. The good news is, I'm almost done, and soon, I can return to doing this on the daily!**

**The bad news is that this chapter is short and kind of not the best.**

**Please, don't be too disappointed! The chapters so far have been rather uneventful, but trouble is definitely on the way!**

**As always, credit goes to GRRM, and nothing goes to me...no profits, no gains, nothing!**

* * *

Gendry watched Arya for the rest of the day, noting how her sullen glares would give way to sadness before snapping back into place. The easy camaraderie between them evaporated, and she again had a wall around her that Gendry knew she would never allow him to breach. She was turning back into the shell she'd been when she'd found out her brothers had died.

This time, instead of being her comfort, he was the cause of her pain. He missed her smiles and her laugh, both of which she was now bestowing on Edric Dayne as the two of them talked. He balled his hands into fists, hating the young lord. The Brotherhood began to travel again, and Edric Dayne moved away from her.

She travelled apart from the group, and when they stopped for breaks, she would spar viciously with members of the Brotherhood, her rage insurmountable and all-consuming.

She had always been on the edge of darkness, always dangerously close to losing herself in the hate, and Gendry feared that he had pushed her to the brink, if not completely over it.

He bitterly regretted his decision to leave her, and he wanted to tell her that he had changed his mind. He wasn't sure if she would listen, and he wasn't sure if he was allowed to leave the Brotherhood after promising that he'd stay.

As he looked at the dark haired girl with the haunted grey eyes, he realized that none of that mattered. He would do anything for her, go anywhere she'd go.

* * *

Arya lay awake in the dark, adrenaline coursing through her. She had made up her mind. She was leaving tonight. The Brotherhood may have been planning on delivering her to her family, but they had no intention of going about it anytime soon. Besides that, she had come to hate them. Not only were they keeping her apart from her mother and brother, but they had also stolen Gendry from her.

She felt the familiar surge of anger as she thought about what Gendry had said to her. But more than anger, she felt hurt. Gendry had become her family, and for him to deny her had been a cruel betrayal. She twitched uncomfortably on the cold ground, hating how she missed the feeling of his body around her.

She was anxious to leave, but she had to make sure that none of The Brotherhood would hear her go. She figured her best bet was to head west until she found the Riverroad, which she would then follow to Riverrun.

She stood silently, picking her way through the camp, careful not to tread on anyone. She made it out of the clearing and dove into the tree line, making her way through the underbrush as quietly as she could. A few moments in, she could hear the loud crashing and the thudding footfalls of another person behind her. She turned and was just able to make out the looming shadow that was following her.

It would be too loud and too difficult to confront him here, so she instead continued fighting her way through the forest. She was smaller and lighter on her feet than the hulking figure behind her, so she easily kept a large gap between them.

They struggled through the forest for hours, and Arya would often trip or stumble over things she couldn't see in the dark. After one particularly nasty fall, she could hear the shadow behind her running to try to get to her. She had scrambled up, ignoring the pain in her knee, and continued on.

Finally, Arya could take no more. She was exhausted and sore and even the determination that had been driving her forward sputtered out. She found a clearing and fell to the ground in exhaustion. She couldn't hear the footsteps anymore, and she figured that she had lost her tracker. She closed her eyes, sleep almost claiming her, when she heard her name.

"Arya? Are you okay?"

Suddenly the fire reignited within her, and she was on her feet, glaring at the boy before her.

"What do you want? Did you come fetch me for your new masters?" Her voice was acidic and dripping with sneering sarcasm.

"I came for you," he said simply, his face calm. He was stubborn, but he was more level-headed than she and infinitely more patient. He refused to be baited by her, and he didn't allow himself to grow angry.

"Why would you come for me? I'm nothing to you."

"You're everything to me."

Arya felt a thrill in her chest when he said that, but she pushed the feeling away, still furious with him.

"Is that why you abandoned me?"

"Arya, I'm sorry! I made a mistake. I thought I was doing what was best for you. I didn't realize how much I would break you. But I'm here to fix it." Anger came then, but she knew that it wasn't directed at her, but at himself.

Arya's eyes bugged out. "I'm not _broken_! You don't mean enough to me for me to be _broken_."

She knew she was being cruel, but at the moment, she couldn't bring herself to care, even as she saw him flinch.

He took an automatic step toward her, and she quickly backed away.

"I know you're mad at me, but _please_, don't shut me out. Sometimes, families fight. They say things they don't mean, and they think hate each other, but at the end of the day, none of it matters because they are always there for one another."

"You are not my family," she hissed, throwing his words back at him. She hesitated and then added, "you bastard."

Gendry finally snapped.

"YES, Arya, I'm a bastard! And NO, I'm not good enough for you! You were happy enough to sleep beside me around The Brotherhood, but what about when we got to your family? Would you have pulled me into bed with you then? Would you even look twice at the bastard blacksmith you'd dragged with you? What would I be to you, Arya? Some novelty, some passing fancy? It killed me to leave you, and in the end, I couldn't do it. So here I am. I will follow wherever you lead, until you eventually leave me behind." His chest was heaving, and he was angrier than she'd ever seen him.

"You stupid, stupid bull. None of that ever mattered to me. It still doesn't matter to me." She was near tears again, and she felt a surge of rage at him for bringing her to tears twice in one day. He walked slowly towards her, the hostility still coming off of him in waves. This time, she didn't move away.

"I wanted to take you with me. I couldn't do this without you." She looked around wildly, trying to explain to him how much she needed him, but loathing to admit the weakness. Gendry's eyes softened, seeming to understand. He advanced closer still so that there were only inches of space between them. She stared up into his eyes.

"Gendry—"

Her next words were cut off as he seized her face and brought his lips crashing to hers.

* * *

**Yeah...that happened. If it seems fast, don't worry, it's all part of the plan.**

**This will get better, chapters will be longer, and updates will come faster, I promise! xxx**


	5. Chapter 5

**Ugh. Finally. This chapter has been bouncing around my head for days, and I finally just wrote it down.**

**The timeline is a bit warped and a bit accelerated compared to the book. Whateva, whateva. I do what I want hahaha. But seriously, I have a loooooooong story to write, and it's expedient for me to compress the framework events a bit.**

**I'm planning on updating this as frequently as I do my other fics, which means I'll be posting a new chapter at least every other day, give or take a day.**

**I don't own any of this, GRRM does! I also don't make any sort of a profit for this!**

* * *

Arya's eyes flew open. Gendry's lips were still on hers. Her lips had parted in surprise, and they stayed frozen there. His hands were on her face, pulling her closer into him. He pulled so forcefully that she had to stand on her toes to satisfy him. He continued clutching her, his lips growing more desperate and demanding as she continued to be unresponsive. She felt her heart thud almost painfully. Heat flushed to her cheeks.

She stared at Gendry as he kissed her. His eyes were closed and his face was hard with determination and intensity and something else. His hands moved to the top of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. Her thoughts were racing almost as quickly as her heart. She was confused and overwhelmed.

Finally, he broke their lips apart and pressed a shaking kiss into her forehead. His grip slackened, and he opened his tightly clenched eyes. They were stormy and fervent and searching. His nose wasn't even an inch from hers. He was breathing heavily into her face.

She suddenly remembered that she was angry at him. No, she was furious. Furious at him for disposing of her. Furious at him for thinking he could come back. Furious at him for wresting himself from her life and then thrusting himself back in. Furious at him for making those choices for her.

Her mind was rebelling against him, and she realized that she wanted to hit him again. Hard as her thoughts were, though, her body was softened against him. Her back was arched into him, and her face was angled up to his. Her breathing felt constricted. Her arms, at first hanging stiffly by her sides, were now resting on his shoulders.

The intensity in his eyes was fading, and his hands slid down her back. They came to rest lightly on her waist. He started to pull away. He was looking at her sadly. She moved her hands from his shoulders to his chest and pushed him the rest of the way away.

She turned her back on him.

"I'm not going back to The Brotherhood. I'm going to the Riverlands to find my family."

"Where you go, I go," he said simply.

She hadn't realized she was worried until she felt the wave of relief. The path that was stretched out before her was dark and endless, and she would've walked down it alone, but she was glad she didn't have to.

They lay down to sleep, but she couldn't find rest. Her eyes kept popping open to see if Gendry was still there. Never again would she take his presence for granted. She would always be watching to see when he would try to disappear again.

Sighing, she sat up, knowing that she wouldn't find peace for a while. She pulled out the old, iron coin given to her by Jaqen H'ghar after they'd fled Harrenhal. It felt heavy in her hand. She again felt remorse for not spending her deaths more wisely.

She flipped the coin, the motion soon becoming hypnotic. As the dark closed in around her, she repeated the words that brought her the only true comfort she'd been able to find since her father's death. After every name, she'd flip the coin.

"Joffrey. Cersei. Theon. Ilyn Payne. The Hound."

Sleep finally found her, and the dreams came, unbidden. This time, instead of walking through another nightmare, she was in the woods. Dimly, she was aware that she was not a human, she was a wolf. She stalked through the trees, powerful and free. It all felt so familiar to her, but she couldn't understand why. She howled into the night. A few minutes later, she could hear a howling in the distance. This time, she could feel in her bones that she knew that sound. It was as if she had heard it all her life.

* * *

Sandor heaped more wood onto the fire, trying to stop the little bird from shuddering. He draped his cloak around her. She smiled sweetly up at him, and he tried not to stare. Even after everything she'd been through, she was still beautiful. He had not been a man accustomed to beauty, but ever since he had first seen her at Winterfell, he had been unable to look away.

He had always been protective of the girl, even to his own detriment. _That was still true, even now_, he thought as he stared at her through the flames. Who knew what he was risking, bringing her to the King in the North. They could kill him as soon as he arrived with her without hesitation or question. All they would need to know is that he was The Hound. They likely wouldn't even care if Sansa spoke for him. He paused.

_Would she defend him?_ She may be a proper little lady who always did what she was told, but she hated him. At least, she had until he'd saved her from the Red Keep. She was staring back at him, and he knew that the uneven light was warping his face so that it looked even more gruesome than it usually did. She didn't flinch away, however. She only looked at him sadly, and he didn't know if the pity was for him or her.

"My little brothers are dead. Joffrey told me right before he left to fight Stannis. He said he wanted to go into battle with the memory of how my face looked when I found out."

Sandor clenched his fist. That sounded exactly like the sort of sick thing that would bring Joffrey pleasure. Sansa's face was shining in the firelight with her tears.

"Winterfell is gone. Theon Greyjoy burned it to the ground along with my brothers."

She began sobbing in earnest, and Sandor had no idea what to do. Plenty of women had cried in front of him before, but he had never wanted to comfort them the way he did now. He rose uncertainly and awkwardly settled himself beside her. He was a gentle man when he wanted to be, and he was gentle now.

Haltingly, he placed a hand on her trembling shoulder. She jumped at the contact, but she didn't push him away. After a minute, her tiny hand came to rest on his thigh. As she cried, he thought about how he was already breaking his promise. She was suffering cruelly, and there was nothing he could do to stop the hurt.

Somewhere far away, wolves were howling.

* * *

Robb paced around his tent agitatedly, his mother's eyes upon him.

"Edmure will marry the Frey girl, but he is unhappy about it."

Robb didn't look at her. He was still angry with her for letting Jamie Lannister go. Finally, he nodded. He was grateful to his uncle for sacrificing this for him, well aware of the injustice.

"We'll leave for the Twins soon, then."

Jeyne entered their tent, and Catelyn rose to leave, her eyes glittering with disapproval. As she walked away, several of Robb's men surrounded her and escorted her back to her tent.

Robb smiled at his pretty wife, his anxiety lessening a bit. She smiled back, taking his hand and caressing it in her own.

"What's this I heard about leaving?"

"My uncle is marrying one of the Frey girls so we can maintain our alliance with House Frey."

A faint blush passed over Jeyne's face. She knew she was the reason this was all happening in the first place. Robb kissed her lightly before continuing.

"We're leaving for the wedding soon. You have to stay here. I wish I could take you, but I don't want to exacerbate the tension. Besides, we have more than just your safety to worry about now."

They both smiled as he placed a hand over her stomach. No one knew yet, not even his mother. They wanted to keep it to themselves for as long as possible. He pulled her into bed, and they held each other contentedly.

That night, they fell asleep to the sound of Grey Wind howling at another wolf somewhere far in the distance.

* * *

**Robb is 19/20 for this btw. Also, noooooooo Robb! Don't go to the wedding!**

**Thanks for being so supportive guys, and prepare yourselves, the Red Wedding is coming. xxx**


	6. Chapter 6

**I have discovered that there is no rhyme or reason to how I update this. Sometimes, inspiration hits, and other times, I hit a wall. I wrote this chapter quickly and have another on the way. So I guess, inspiration is flowin right now haha**

**GRRM owns all characters and ASOIAF. I write this for fun and not for profit!**

* * *

Sansa watched the big man curiously. Not for the first time, she wondered why he was here with her. He had said himself that he was no knight, and yet, he had rescued her. He had stayed with her, travelling with her day after day, when he could have abandoned her long ago. She was a burden, she knew, but he always did everything he could to lessen her hardship. He built fires, provided food, walked alongside Stranger so she could ride, and slept on the ground so she could have the only bedroll. And he asked for nothing in return.

They were alone out here, and Sansa had seen enough of the evils of men to know that if he wanted to, Sandor could have taken her against her will at any time. But he hadn't touched her. Though he was short with her at times, he was never cruel. His manner was gruff, but there were moments where he exhibited a gentleness that surprised her.

"What?" he snarled, catching her glance. Blushing, she looked down at her hands, watching as they twisted in her lap. Sandor sighed and lumbered over to her. Heavily, he sat beside her, and they both started eating silently. He shifted slightly, and she jumped instinctually at his sudden movement.

Seeing his face darken, she felt the remorse flood through her. Joffrey had conditioned her to be used to abuse, and the many beatings he had ordered against her were still fresh in her memory. _But Sandor had never struck her_. She knew he would never hurt her, and she felt bad for flinching from him. He had always been angry when she was afraid of him. Biting her lip, she looked at him regretfully. She wasn't afraid of him anymore.

Turning away from her, he moved to stand. Without thinking about it, she brought her hand to his arm, an unspoken request for him to stay. He settled back down and fixed her in his gaze. She met his grey eyes unflinchingly.

"I'm sorry. It's just that this has been a long journey, and I think I'm a little tense."

His eyes tightened, and she continued in a quieter voice.

"Not that I'm ungrateful. You have been so good to me. I don't know what I would do without you."

Sandor merely grunted.

"I _do _know that I wouldn't have survived Joffrey if you hadn't saved me."

Her hand stayed on his arm, so light, it barely felt substantial.

* * *

Later that night, Sansa stared into the darkness and listened as Sandor's breathing grew deeper and slower and eventually gave way to snores. Sleep was tugging at her eyes, too, but she was afraid to let it take over. She was afraid to see her father and brothers looking at her with dead eyes and severed bodies. They haunted her every night, and she often woke choking on her tears.

More than once, when she had startled awake, she had found Sandor crouching over her, his hand resting softly on her shoulder. It was comforting to wake to his touch; it was the only reassuring reminder she had that she was not alone. Once she stopped crying, he would always move away from her to lie back down, resuming the distance between them. She would miss him when he'd leave, not wanting to admit that she craved his warmth beside her.

She turned onto her side and dragged her knees into her chest. Humming softly to herself, she closed her eyes and tried to push away the fears that always came creeping in every night. _Silly bird and her silly songs_, she thought wryly, biting back a laugh. Sandor would be glad to know that she had stopped believing in the songs long ago. He would be less amused to know that she thought him more honest and honorable than any knight she'd known.

The weight of her fatigue dragged her into the depths of unconsciousness.

_Joffrey was dragging her by the elbow, parading her past the heads of her father and septa. Her brothers came next, dangling gruesomely from the ropes around their necks. His laughter was cruel and seemed to surround her on all sides. She fell on her knees, crying, begging for him to stop. He only laughed harder and continued dragging her._

_She clenched her eyes shut and grit her teeth. "Please," her voice came out raggedly. Cruel laughter was her only answer. "Look." His voice was cold and hard. She felt his fingers digging into her skull, pulling her hair and wrenching her head up. "Look!" She felt his blade at her neck. Against her will, she forced herself to open her eyes._

_Her breath, at first heaving in her chest, came to a complete shocked halt when she saw who stood before her. Her mother stared at her with rheumy eyes. She was a shadow of her former self—a ghost. She was pale and gaunt. Her coloring was grey, save for the crimson cuts leaking all over her skin._

_A scream started building at the base of her spine and rose to her throat. Before she could let it out, the blade at her neck choked it to a stop._

Her eyes flew open, and the image of her mother faded away, but the pressure at her throat stayed there. The fingers tearing at her scalp were real, as was the knife on her skin. His foul breath seeped into her nostrils, and his breathing was jagged with excitement.

"We've got a pretty one here," he cackled.

Her eyes were watering with fear and lack of oxygen. She fruitlessly clawed at the hands holding her hostage. Her captor hissed in anger and pressed the knife harder. She felt a sharp pain and then a sticky wetness. Panic tore at her chest, and a gasp ripped out of her.

"She's young, too."

Distantly, Sansa heard another voice as a second man's face swam into view. She could barely make him out by the dying embers of the fire. He was grinning maliciously at her. Raising a dirty hand, he advanced toward her and began stroking her face. Sansa cringed away from him only to back closer against the one holding the knife.

He chortled and dragged her further into the darkness.

"Young and tight and smooth," he jeered. He and his friend sniggered malevolently. The point of the knife shifted so that it was positioned above her heart as he came around in front of her. They came toward her menacingly. She wanted to look away but couldn't divert her wide, tear-filled eyes.

She wondered fleetingly if their dirty, sunken faces would be the last things she'd see. One of them grabbed her shoulders and forced her down while the other one ripped her skirt open. She sobbed freely now and watched them in abject terror.

Through the darkness, she saw quick flashes of steel. The men dropped to the ground, scarlet pouring from their chests. Sansa stifled a scream and stared down at the bloody corpses, her mouth agape with shock and eyes transfixed with horror. She felt a heavy, thick cloak drop around her shoulders. Her gaze shot up to Sandor. Face full of rage and scar twitching horribly, he hefted the bodies over his shoulder and crashed away from her through the trees.

Her knees gave out, and she crumpled to the ground, crying in earnest. Clutching his cloak tighter and wrapping her arms around her shaking body, she rocked back and forth. Her breath came out in short, labored bursts.

She heard Sandor's heavy footfalls as he returned to her. He regarded her uncertainly, his face a mess of scowls and shadows. Sansa knew that he was afraid to approach her because he was worried that he'd scared her.

Wracking sobs gave way to hiccups and finally settled into rough breathing. Her haggard sighs were the only sound in the clearing. Cautiously, Sandor approached her and offered her a large, calloused hand. He enclosed her tiny, fragile one in his and helped her rise.

When she was unsteadily on her feet again, his grip began to slacken. She held fast to him. Surprised, he looked down into her large, imploring eyes. She leaned against him for a minute, trying to catch her breath.

Delicate white fingers traced the red streaks on his armor. She drew closer to him, leaning heavily on him. Her grip was deathly tight, and she started pulling at him gently.

Silently, she led him to the river and helped him clean off the blood. Wordlessly, he watched her slim silhouette move gracefully in the moonlight. Her hand stayed on his chest long after the blood was gone. His hand grazed her cheek and gripped it more firmly when she leaned forward. They were so close that she could feel his hot breath on her face.

"I'm glad you killed them."

"They were going to hurt you," he growled.

"And you stopped them," she whispered, drawing closer to him.

Despite the cold air, a heat came over her as she grew more aware of his body so near hers. Biting her lip, she wildly wondered if he was going to kiss her again. A shiver passed through her at the thought. His hand dropped from her face to her shoulder, and he rubbed it, trying to warm her up.

He helped her to her feet and led her back to their camp. One of her hands held his cloak clutched tightly around her, and the other rested lightly on his forearm. She stumbled a bit in the dark, and his strong arm slipped around her waist and steadied her.

Laying down again, she felt the ground shift as he started to walk away. She sat up quickly and captured his hand again.

"Sandor. Don't leave me. Please?"

His massive body settled heavily beside her, and he was careful not to break their connected hands. She tugged his arm so that it rested softly across her middle.

"Don't worry, Little Bird. I'll get you back to your mother and brother. You'll be home soon."

A serene smile settled over her face as sleep claimed her easily. For the first time in a long time, she passed a peaceful, dreamless night.

* * *

**Thanks for the follows and reviews, y'all! And thanks for putting up with my infrequent and unpredictable updates!**

**I tend to digress and get distracted, but I SWEAR I won't abandon this for such a long time again! xxx**


	7. Chapter 7

**I wrote most of this in class today, so that was a very productive two hours hahaha. The rest of this chapter took me most of the day because I kept having to take a break and then return to it. Because it took me so long to write, I read through it quickly, just wanting to be done with the stupid thing. As such, there are probably a few typos. I tried to fix any I could find, but there are probably more. I know they are cringe-inducing/annoying, but please try to forgive them!**

**GRRM owns all characters and ASOIAF. I just disagree with some of his story line choices, and fix them by writing these. I don't write this for ****profit; I just write it so I can have an alternate reality for my favorite characters!**

* * *

Her fury subsided the further they travelled. The angry pounding of her feet and thrashing thorough the trees finally slowed and allowed him to walk alongside her. They began talking again. His words were cautious at first, and hers were stiff, but soon, they began to relax around each other.

She finally trusted him enough to sleep beside him again. In the crook of his body and the warmth of his arms, troubled sleep would come to her. Nightmares still haunted her, and when he would try to calm her, she would sometimes push him away. Other times, she would burrow into him, her fingers grasping at the front of his tunic, holding onto him tightly.

He saw the way she would watch him. She always watched him. It was his fault. He knew how she lived with the fear of loss, and he had only foisted more upon her. Grey eyes always studied him, sometimes narrowed, always wary. Whenever he would catch her reproachful stare, regret would seize him. He hated that he gave her reasons to doubt him, and he hated how her trust in him—once so complete and unwavering—was now conflicted.

He watched her tiny figure scramble over roots and under branches. She stumbled a bit, and he was at her elbow in an instant. Shrugging him off, she jerked her arm away.

"Arya. Do you still know where we are?"

"Yes." Her voice snapped, sharp as a whip. "We're almost to The Twins."

"Why are we going to The Twins?"

"I heard some of the Brotherhood talking before we left. My uncle is marrying one of Walder Frey's daughters. My mother and brother are going with him for the wedding. They should be there soon."

"What happens when we find them?"

His voice was soft and careful. Her posture instantly became guarded, and she studied him from the corner of her eye. Words came gradually and suspiciously.

"Will you stay with me?"

He nodded and pulled her into a tight hug, crushing her into his chest. Stiffly, Arya stood encircled in his embrace. Slowly, she brought her arms around him, and he felt her tension seep out.

They lingered there for several moments before breaking apart. They continued walking in amiable silence. As they came over the crest of the hill, they could see the twin towers rising up in the distance. Far below them, he could see a procession moving towards the towers, Stark banners on display.

He heard her breath catch, and he stared down at the top of her eagerly bobbing head. Grabbing his hand in her excitement, she grinned up at him. "We're so close!"

He smiled uncertainly back, not sure why he suddenly felt worried.

* * *

Grey Wind growled forebodingly, and Robb placed a calming hand on his head. The rumbling in his throat softened to a whine. It was unnerving, and Robb glanced over at his mother, seeing his concern mirrored on her face. He glanced behind to see his bannermen staring grimly back.

He swallowed hard and turned back around to face the two soaring towers in front of him. Walder Frey's men straightened as they passed, their faces grave and impassive. Silence settled over the grey day. Catelyn rode stiffly beside her son, her trepidation growing with every step they took. Edmure, too, looked doubtful, but Robb knew his concern was about his bride.

The tension only increased as they entered Walder Frey's great hall. He sat in his huge chair, watching them, his eyes sunken deep in his waxy complexion.

"The King in the North. Welcome," he croaked, a sardonic smile snaking across his face.

"Lord Walder, we are most honored to be here. Nothing could bring me more joy than joining together Houses Tully and Frey."

His eyes glittered and mouth stretched as he regarded the young wolf.

"It's a good match, almost as good as an alliance with House Stark."

Robb faltered, and he remembered his mother's words: _"He wanted a king."_

"Lord Walder—"

"—I jest, I jest! We are most honored to welcome the King in the North to our, humble hall."

They passed around the bread and salt, and Robb expelled a breath of relief. He felt his mother relax at his side. Only Edmure remained edgy, his jaw tightly clenched. Robb felt the familiar surge of guilt. Because he'd acted rashly, his uncle was going to have to marry a girl he didn't want to repair the promises he'd broken.

Preparations were made for the wedding. Robb couldn't help but notice the expressionless faces around him, drawn tight. The still, subdued faces of Frey's men and daughters were unsettling. Edmure waited at the front of the hall. Looking resigned, he watched as his bride approached him, her face obscured by her veil. When she reached him, she knelt before him, and he lifted the fabric so he could see her.

She was a young, pretty thing with a sweet smile and heart-shaped face. Edmure laughed in disbelief at his good fortune and helped her to her feet. Robb and Catelyn laughed together, too. Edmure had been bitter and rancorous about the marriage for the entire journey, and it had been for nothing.

The ceremony was performed quickly, and as Edmure wrapped Roslin in his cloak, Robb felt a peace was over him. They had made reparations, and soon, he would be able to gather his forces, which now included Frey's men, and take Casterly Rock and avenge his father.

He beamed at his mother. It was his first true smile in weeks.

* * *

Arya raced down the hill, pulling Gendry with her. He tried to caution her, but she was deaf to everything but the pounding of her heart. The ache to see her family again urged her faster and faster, and she felt ready to burst with the need to see him again.

Slow. So slow. Too slow. Hard as they ran, she couldn't catch up to her brother. Night was falling, and most of Robb's men had long disappeared into the castle. The remaining ones stayed outside in the courtyard, but she didn't recognize any of them. Grey Wind howled as he paced around the pen he'd been locked in. Arya knew that the wolf must be uneasy to be outside and away from Robb, but something in his hackled shoulders sent shivers down her spine.

_Something wasn't right_.

The gates closed as they drew nearer. They stood in the darkness, just out of reach of the torchlight.

Giving her a pleading look, Gendry held a finger to his lips. As much as she wanted to storm up to the guards and demand to be let in, she knew she had to hold her tongue. She didn't need Gendry to tell her that it was still dangerous to be known as a Stark.

She looked around in frustration until her eyes lighted on a cart not too far away. Nudging Gendry, she started to move toward it. He followed closely behind her. The cart's owner was drunk and passed out, and the two moved him easily.

Her hair cut short, Arya still looked like a little boy, and she scrambled in the back of the cart as Gendry hopped on the horse and brought it around to the gate.

"What's this?" one of the guards demanded.

"Food. For the wedding feast," Gendry grunted back, his gaze on the ground and his face partially masked in the shadows.

Another guard beside him shook his head.

"These aren't the ones," he muttered. "Leave," he commanded, louder and in their direction.

Arya glared over at them suspiciously as Gendry rolled them away. The guards watched their slow procession back into the night, and they didn't look away until they were satisfied that they had gone.

They abandoned the cart quickly, and Gendry started moving back up the hill the way they'd come. Arya balked. She couldn't leave. Not when they were so close. Darting around the perimeter, she cursed Gendry's loud steps as he blundered behind her. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her closer to him, and she could feel his worry.

"Arya, just wait for the feast to be over. You can wait one more night. They'll be out tomorrow," he whispered urgently.

"No! Something is going on, and you know it!" she hissed furiously back. His face hardened and she could barely make it out. She punched him hard in the chest, but he didn't even flinch at the blow.

"If something is wrong, then I need to keep you safe."

"No you don't!" She was shaking in fury, and she had to fight to keep from yelling at him. Struggling against his grip, she clawed and kicked him, but he was unyielding. More hits came, and he blocked and countered them, easily overpowering her. Tears of frustration were leaking out, and she hated him for holding her back.

Their movements were brought to an abrupt halt as a group of dark riders galloped into view. The gates creaked slowly open for them, and Arya watched, her eyes widening in horror.

"Sellswords," she whispered with dread.

* * *

Catelyn returned Edmure's smile with an uneasy one of her own as she watched her brother dote on his new bride. The wedding was done, and Lord Walder had been unpleasant, but nothing less benign than that. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat between Roose Bolton and Ryman Frey. For whatever reason, she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that had settled in her stomach and was now pushing up into her chest.

She scanned the room with distrustful eyes. Robb was dancing easily with the Frey girls, his concerns apparently gone. There was a mirthless joy on the face of everyone in the room, and Catelyn finally understood what was amiss: the entire evening had felt like a trick. The faces of the men around her swam in the candlelight and looked as though they were masks, glittering evilly.

The intense thumping of her heart seemed to drown out the continuous pounding of the drums. As she studied the faces closer, she realized that some of the Freys were missing. Olyvar was not there; neither were Perwyn and Alesander.

Growing panic moved her to rise, and Roose looked up at her interestedly.

"Something wrong, Lady Catelyn?"

Her lips pulled into a thin line, she shook her head. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the back of the chair. Impulse was screaming at her to grab Robb and tell him to run. Several of the girls appeared to be on the verge of tears. Catelyn's heart was racing; her body seemed to understand something her mind had yet to grasp ahold of.

She felt Lord Walder's beady eyes upon her. Just as she looked up to meet he gaze, he held a hand up and commanded that the music be stopped.

"I think, it's time for the bedding."

A great cheer went up among the men, Edmure among them. Grinning eagerly, he allowed himself to be led away to enjoy his first night with his bride. His young wife was hoisted into the air, and Catelyn did not miss the way her cheeks were swimming in tears. Instinct told her that it was not just fear of the wedding night that brought the girl's tears. She seemed terrified of something, and horribly, horribly sad. Robb did not join in carrying her away.

He only watched numbly. In the absence of the music, they could hear Grey Wind's howls. He turned to look at his mother, confusion burning in his eyes. She looked back, just as aggravated. In her periphery, she saw Edwyn Frey leaving the feast. Her eyes narrowed as she fixated on him. She did not trust the man.

He had been the one to ride out to Riverrun and foster the marriage between Edmure and Roslin. He had insisted that the castle was too small to house all of Robb's soldiers, but looking around at the massive expanse, Catelyn doubted that he had been truthful. Edwyn had also told Robb that his soldiers should continue up the Green Fork where they would find tents to house them. She wondered what had become of her son's men.

She started to move towards him, but Darcey Mormont reached him first. Batting her eyes at him, she asked if he fancied a dance. His glare only deepened, and he shoved her violently away. Looking shocked, the girl ran from him, and Catelyn's breath caught. Such an impetuous and malignant action was untoward and unnecessary.

_Something was definitely awry_.

Her resolve strengthened, she moved angrily towards the man, intending to confront him. Her hand landed on his sleeve, and she felt the mail underneath. The appalling realization hit her with staggering force. Distantly, she heard the musicians begin to play The Rains of Castamere. The sad song disturbed her deeply, and channeling all of her rage and fear into the motion, she let fly her hand and brought it forcefully across his face.

His lip was bleeding from the strength of her hit.

"Robb!" She screamed so loudly, her voice broke. He turned just in time to see her rip his sleeve and reveal what was underneath. She fell to the ground as Edwyn shoved her. Her shoulder and hip struck hard, and the pain knocked the breath from her.

Angrily, Robb moved forward to stop him. Catelyn gurgled in horror as she watched the arrows fly through the air and sink into her son, sending him crashing to the ground. She wrenched her horrified eyes upward to they who had loosed the arrows. They were crossbowmen, masquerading as musicians.

Tears splashed to the dirty ground as Catelyn stared at her motionless son. The men around her snapped to action. Smalljon flipped a table in front of Robb so as to block him from more arrows. Blood ran freely, mixing with dirt as men fell dead around her.

Amidst the battle, Lord Walder gleefully sat, his eyes greedily taking in the slaughter. Painfully, she began dragging herself toward him, pulling a knife from a corpse she passed. If only she could kill Lord Walder, she could put an end to this all.

* * *

Arya finally pulled free of Gendry and sprinted toward the riders. Some of them were dressed as Northmen, but Arya could tell that they weren't Robb's men. They took no notice of her as she slipped silently between them.

As she burst into the courtyard, she saw Robb's true men, eating and laughing, completely unaware of the danger charging toward them. She screamed desperately at them, begging them to look. At first they were confused, not seeing the threat as they took in the northern dress and banners. Almost too late, they realized that these were enemies, charging at them with swords bared.

They sprang up and began fighting them off, but Arya could see that they were outnumbered. Dread scraped through her consciousness, and her body went numb with fear. Grey Wind's cries forced her back into alertness. The wolf was rabid with the need to escape his cage, and she knew that Robb must be in grave danger.

She hurled herself toward the animal and seized a rock. She hit it against the lock in a desperate frenzy. Sometimes, in her haste, she would miss, and her knuckles would collide with the metal. She could feel the tissue swell and the blood gush, but she paid no mind to the pain.

A great clanging noise sounded above her, and she turned to see Gendry standing over her and blocking the enemy's sword from plunging into her skull. He fought the man off, his great strength making up for his lack of skill. She turned back to her task with a renewed vigor. Grey Wind helped her, throwing his body against the cage. The cries of dying men swelled around her, and she prayed that Gendry wasn't one of them making the sounds.

The lock finally gave, and Grey Wind sprung free. He bounded off, snarling and spitting. Arya watched him go, begging the gods to spare Robb. Gendry threw her a sword, and she plunged into the fighting, stabbing and blocking blindly. He stayed by her side, shielding her when he could, bearing the brunt of the fighting.

He pushed and pulled her through the thicket of men. All too late, she realized that he was leading her out of the courtyard, back through the gates. Screaming in outrage, she tried to run back to the castle, back to her mother and Robb. She could help them. She could save them.

He was too quick for her. He grabbed her around the middle, and her arms and legs splayed in the air as she tried to escape his grasp. Angry words poured from her in a jumble; she couldn't think of anything bad enough to call him. He wrestled her away, pulling her into the night. She bit and scratched and tore at any exposed flesh she could find.

She surged forward, suddenly free. Sword raised, she raced back to the fray. She felt a huge weight collide with the back of her head before she collapsed to the ground, enveloped in blackness.

* * *

Robb staggered to his feet, and Catelyn wanted to yell at him to stay down, but she couldn't draw attention to herself. She was halfway to the wretched man, and every passing minute only increased her desire to see him suffer cruelly.

Suddenly, the doors burst open, and men flowed into the room. Catelyn wept with joy to see the Northmen pour in. _Surely, they were saved_. Her relief was short-lived. Brutally, one of the men cut clean through Smalljon's neck, beheading him.

Her stomach turned as she realized the truth of what was happening. Robb's men, sent up the Green Fork, had been overtaken and killed by the group here. These men, likely sellswords, had disguised themselves as Northmen. The betrayal stung, and Catelyn saw the true hopelessness of the situation.

Her boy, her firstborn son, stood tall before the enemy. He pulled the arrows from his shoulder and thigh and did not give way to weakness. He was going to proudly face death. Catelyn's heart could not bear to watch as the sword came swinging towards Robb, but she could not look away. She whispered goodbye to her son and prayed for death to take her.

Out of nowhere, Grey Wind darted in front of his master and felled his attacker. Blood dripped at his muzzle as he charged down every man who would come near. Her body went slack with relief.

Robb buckled and brought his hands to his wounds, trying to staunch the blood. Grey Wind grabbed his master's cloak and started dragging him away, lashing out when men would come near. Robb found strength enough to pull himself on his own, and Catelyn wished she could carry him to safety.

Grey Wind continued killing, but it was not enough. There were too many. Lord Walder had to die.

Despite the protestations of her ailing body, she pulled herself to him. She had almost reached him when she felt herself yanked from the ground. She looked around wildly for Robb, but she couldn't find him anywhere. She heard Grey Wind's whimper and she saw the direwolf fall, his body riddled with arrows and gaping wounds.

Behind the mound of his grey body, she could just make out the shape of a man, and she knew it was Robb. Unearthly shrieks erupted from her wracking body, and everything within her seemed to break apart. She couldn't any more death, and she couldn't take any more sadness. Her family was ripped from her, and she felt as though her heart had been, too.

The silver kiss of the blade against her neck was merciful as it moved her from the seething and glaring scene before her to the calm quiet black of death.

* * *

"Where is the King of the North? WHERE IS THE KING OF THE NORTH?"

The tendons on Walder Frey's neck bulged as he screamed at his remaining men. They searched the bodies, kicking aside corpses as they went. Their efforts were fruitless. Robb Stark's body was not among the carnage.

"He couldn't have gotten far. We should send out a search party and bring him back."

"No. _No_. Bolton. Edwyn." he nodded at them, and the men understood what he meant. Without warning, they began cutting down every man who was not kin. The other Freys were quick to join in. When all of the sellswords lay dead at their feet, Lord Walder looked deliberately at them all and spoke quietly.

"His Grace, Robb Stark, King in the North, died here this evening. His bitch mother, too. This is all that Lord Tywin need know."

He pointed at one of the dead men who wore the Stark colors. He was of a similar build to the young wolf.

"Sew the head of the wolf to this one's body. We'll parade him as our King."

"What about the woman?" Roose spat in Catelyn's direction.

"The Tullys like to be buried at sea. Strip her bare and throw her into the river." Lord Walder's were the only cackles. The remaining men only stared sullenly at their Lord. They moved to do what he said.

"Bolton. Stay."

Roose looked resentfully up at him.

"Tywin Lannister is a very powerful man. It would not do to disappoint his wishes. I will write to him, and tell him that the Starks are dead. The other men can handle the wolf and the mother. I need you to find Robb Stark and make my words true. If Tywin finds out he is still alive, we are both dead."

* * *

**Lord Walder is missing some "heh's," I know, but I couldn't get the pattern of his speech down without it seeming unnatural, so I just decided to forgo them. Also, they're kind of annoying.**

**Please don't hate me! I didn't want Catelyn to die, and I kept trying to figure out how to keep her alive, but it just doesn't work with my plan...so she had to go **sob****

**Again, thanks for all of the favs/follows/reviews. And thank you mostly for the support. You guys are great xxx**


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm not super happy with this chapter, and it took me forever to work it out, despite its short length.**

**Also, I'm mega disappointed with myself for taking so long to update...I'm making this priority now! These last few chapters have been transitional and necessary to get to the action, and now that I'm past those speed bumps, writing this should be easier on me. Sorry for the wait!**

**As always, GRRM gets all credit for the characters and ASOIAF. I don't write for profit!**

* * *

"I think it's still breathing."

"You're just imagining things!"

"No, I can feel it moving. Wait stop!"

The men paused, shifting their grips on the massive wolf. Blood soaked its muzzle and its matted fur, and arrows stuck out of it at odd angles. Save for the men jostling it, its body was still. They watched it warily for a minute before one of them snorted and told them to keep moving.

"I swear it's still alive. Haven't you heard the stories about it? It had a strange connection with Robb Stark. Some even said the Stark boy could turn into a wolf. What if it's still alive because he's still alive?"

"You craven fool! He may have escaped, but there's no way he'll survive out there with all those injuries he sustained. Soon enough, he'll be dead as his dog, and we'll be throwing his body in the river to rot alongside his mother."

Turning to look into the dark expanse of the woods, the men shivered. Without warning, the bulk in their arms stirred, and they dropped it in shock. Whipping out their swords, they trained their blades on the direwolf. It stumbled unsteadily to its feet, a guttural growl building it its throat.

Gnashing its teeth, Grey Wind stalked back and forth, watching them with fierce eyes. He lunged forward, and the men scattered. A few aimed stabs at the giant creature, but he was too fast for them. In one giant bound, Grey Wind pinned one of them down and began ripping at his throat. Paralyzed by fear, the men watched in macabre fascination.

With fresh blood dripping from his mouth, Grey Wind threw his victim at their feet in warning. They stumbled back further as the wolf retreated. Keeping his eyes on them, he walked backward. Shadowlike in the darkness, Grey Wind disappeared into the night, and the men watched him go until he was nothing more than a pair of yellow eyes in the blackness.

* * *

Sputtering in pain, Robb crashed through the underbrush. The noise of his footsteps broke through the silence of the trees, and he cursed. _They were going to find him_. He slowed his pace, trying to stay undetected while still putting as much distance between himself and Lord Walder as possible. Blackness closed in around his eyes as the pain threatened to overtake him.

He fought away the weakness and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He couldn't think about what had just happened. He couldn't think about his mother. He couldn't think about his wolf. He had to think about his wife and child. He had to get to them before someone else did.

But doubt crept in. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the violent scene, heard his mother's screams. He knew in the pit of his stomach that she was dead and lost to him. He was broken, and he was alone.

Stumbling from fatigue, Robb sprawled in the dirt and thought about staying there. It was too much to bear. Suffering and death and fear surrounded him and stretched out before him. He wanted to fight, but there was no strength left within him. He rolled into a nearby thicket and waited for death to claim him.

Ragged breathing was the only sound in the clearing. Jagged sobs threatened to escape his mouth, but he swallowed them down. He pushed away the image of his mother's face that kept surfacing and brought to mind instead Jeyne's gentle smile and kind eyes. Resolve building, Robb began to gather his strength.

He took a few bracing breaths to stave off his fear when he heard another sound that made his blood quicken. Roose Bolton erupted into the clearing, swinging his sword menacingly. His narrowed eyes scanned the area suspiciously.

Without warning, he charged forward and started stabbing into the brush at random. Closer and closer he came to Robb. Gripping his sword, Robb prepared to fight. If he was going to die, he was going to do so with dignity and not crouched in the dirt.

Adrenaline flooded his system, and his thighs tensed in preparation to leap. Keeping his eyes on the villain, Robb partially unsheathed his sword.

"Bolton!"

Robb and Roose jumped at the same time as one of Lord Walder's men emerged from the trees.

"What in Seven Hells do you want?"

"The direwolf…it's still alive!"

Robb's heart leapt with hope.

"What the fuck do I care about the bloody wolf?"

"It ran in the opposite direction from where you are. We think he's going after his master. We might be able to track him to find the Stark boy."

Abruptly, Roose shoved past the Frey man and began thrashing back the way he'd come. Robb's breathing slowed as he listened to their retreating footfalls. Closing his eyes, he felt relief flood through him. He knew he needed to keep moving, but sleep was so tempting.

His eyes fluttered closed, and his entire body went slack. Stomach sick, head pounding, he surrendered to the temptation and drifted into a deep sleep.

Rough licks and sharp nips woke him some time later, and he sat up, disoriented. Grey Wind was whining and pulling at his clothes, begging him to get up. Robb scratched between his ears.

"Thank the gods you found me."

The animal stared back at him with intelligent yellow eyes, and Robb knew that he had risked everything to track him down and evade Walder Frey's men. He was one of the last family members he had in the world.

"Come on, let's go find Jeyne."

* * *

She was thrashing and sobbing uncontrollably. Hands clawed at the air and feet kicked frantically as though she was trying to fight her way out of something. Roughly, he shook her awake, desperate to make her pain stop.

Wide, panicked, blue eyes met his own steady grey ones. Residual tears slid silently down her cheeks and fell on her heaving chest. She took a horrible gasping breath and looked around her before bursting into tears again. Sandor hovered uselessly above her, unsure of what to do. He was afraid that if he touched her, it would only upset her further. But she was inconsolable, and her loud weeping would be sure to attract more unwanted visitors.

She hadn't had a nightmare like this in weeks, not even after she'd been attacked. With a scowl, he wondered what had caused her relapse. Surely, with them so close to her family, she wouldn't be plagued by these terrors in her sleep.

Without warning, she collapsed into his arms, wrapping her arms around him and leaning up against him for comfort. Shocked, he clumsily brought his arms around her shoulders and tried to hold her still. Because he didn't know what else to do, he let her cry herself hoarse.

Hiccupping, she leaned slightly away from him, and he could see that she was embarrassed. They had grown closer over their travels, but he suspected that it was just because she needed someone for protection.

_Of course she doesn't want you, you old dog._

"Are you done?" he demanded roughly.

Untroubled by his brusque tone, she nodded and wiggled slightly closer to him. Taking his hand in hers, she traced the lines on his palm. Trying not to shiver at her touch, he pushed away thoughts of her hands stroking other parts of him.

_She will never want you in that way_.

"Sandor, it was horrible. I was drowning in deep, black water. And even when I would fight my way to the surface, I couldn't breathe. My mouth was taking in air, but it was like my lungs weren't working. And then hands would push me back down, and I was trying to scream, but no one would listen. And then in the water, I saw my mother, and she was pulling me toward her. Except, she wasn't my mother, not really. She looked angry…and evil…and I don't know what it means!"

"It was just a dream, girl. It doesn't mean anything except that you're scared, and who could blame you after all the shit you've seen?"

She shook her head almost adamantly.

"That can't be it. I'm not scared when I'm with you."

Grunting in surprise, Sandor looked away, annoyed with the tender surge he felt at her words.

_They were just pretty words, and no one sang them better than Sansa._

New tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she stared at him mournfully.

"This war can turn anyone into a monster, Sandor. And I don't know what's worse: that or death. Either way, I don't think death and darkness are done with me yet."

* * *

**Not my best...sorry about that!**

**Next chapter is going to pick up with Gendry and Arya, and probably Sandor and Sansa.**

**Robb and Jeyne are going to take a backseat for a while, and Jon, Bran, and Rickon should be making an appearance sooner or later.**

**Thanks for your patience guys, and thanks for all the favs/follows/reviews! xxx**


	9. Chapter 9

**Another long one! Just fair warning, there is very little plot progression in this and a whoooooooole lot of character development.**

**I have no other big things to say here, so I'll just say the usual: GRRM gets all credit for the characters and for ASOIAF. I get no profit for writing this!**

* * *

Gentle, rocking motions were all she felt in her first moments of consciousness. The movement was soothing, and she kept her eyes closed. Slowly, she became aware of other things: strong arms around her; heavy footfalls crunching over the ground; green light filtering through her eyelids. Her eyes fluttered open to see the ground moving beneath her as Gendry carried her.

Steady strength radiated from him, and she allowed his sense of calm to permeate the numbness that had overtaken her. Scattered and half-aware thoughts skittered through her mind, but she pushed them away, unwilling to let go of the sleepy peace in which she was cocooned.

She suddenly noticed the pain in her stomach from being thrown over Gendry's shoulder. Blood pounded in her ears, adding to the pressure in her head from being upside down. Her hands were folded into each other, trapped between her and Gendry's bodies. Her breathing felt constricted all of a sudden, and she began to feel hot and panicky. A greater fear was pulling at the back of her mind, but whenever she tried to access it, a black wall descended. The void in her memory left her feeling lost, and the harder she fought to grasp it, the more it seemed to slip away. She felt helpless, and she began thrashing against his grasp.

Almost instantly, Gendry righted her and settled her on the ground carefully. Her feet stumbled, unused to bearing her weight. Sturdy arms shot out to balance her. At his touch, she crumpled, and he caught and cradled her. He knelt and helped her sit. She drew up her knees so her chin could rest upon them, but her hands stayed rested against his chest, pulling at the thin fabric of his tunic.

The surrounding trees shimmered in her view, and nothing felt real. Only Gendry felt solid and sure, and she gripped him tightly. She didn't know why, but everything in her depended on not losing him. She was confused, so confused. Worry-laden blue eyes met clouded grey ones, and he answered her unspoken question.

"You've been in and out of consciousness for the past couple of days."

She startled at that, and his eyebrows drew together in puzzlement.

"Do you not remember?"

Shaking her head, she rubbed her eyes vigorously. Pain ebbed at the edges of her consciousness. Piecemeal, stunted memories returned to her: Gendry rousing her; Gendry forcing her to eat and drink; Gendry carrying her. Dark circles bloomed beneath his eyes, and unthinkingly, she reached up to stroke them. Though he was utterly drained, for her sake, he had never faltered.

"We have been travelling this whole time?"

He nodded warily. _Why was he watching her with so much anxiety?_ Indeed, his gaze was drenched in alarm, and his arms hovered around her cautiously as though afraid she would come apart. Looking around, she tried to understand where she was, but all she saw were trees. They were both familiar and strange to her; though she had seen countless trees in the past months, this particular patch was unacquainted with her.

She was so tired of endless forests and trees and journeys leading nowhere. She only wanted to return to her family. _Her family_. The thought struck her strangely for some reason. There was something about her family that she was trying desperately to remember.

Dredged up from the bowels of her memory, images raced to her mind—the dark of the night, Grey Wind's howls, the slaughtering of Robb's men. _Robb_. The realization came as a blow, knocking the wind out of her and settling with abjection in the pit of her stomach.

"Oh."

She said it in a dead, toneless voice that scared the hell out of him. Her face became a blank husk as her arms dropped from his cheeks. Over the past couple of days, her near catatonic state had caused him nothing short of acute terror. She had barely been responsive when he woke her and forced her to eat, and she slept so deeply that the only reassurance he had that she was still alive was her light breathing that he could barely feel as he supported her against his chest.

With hardly any rest, he had carried her away from The Towers, needing to get her as far away from the horror as possible. Only in the darkest part of night did he stop, laying her carefully beside his body. Exhausted as he was, sleep had not come to him. Her stillness alarmed him, and though it would have pained him to see her thrash and cry out from nightmares, he would have welcomed any signs of life over the chilling inertness that took over her seemingly lifeless body.

There had been nothing to do but wait for her to wake. With great impatience, he waited for her to come back to him even though he suspected that she would blame him and hate him for keeping her from reaching her mother and brother. He anticipated her fury, welcomed it even, but all he was faced with was hopeless silence and miserable eyes.

He stared at her in anguish, desperate to ease her pain but completely unable to remove it. Without saying anything, she made to stand, and he was quick to help her. Shaking him off, she rose unsteadily on her own and waited for him to join her. Her tiny hand came to grasp his sleeve, and she didn't remove her hold from him for the whole of the time that they continued walking.

As the day stretched on and the hours passed, a fraction of Arya's strength returned to her, and some color came to her pallid complexion. All the while, she held on to him, the thin fabric of his shirt proving a tenuous connection between them.

Night finally fell, and they stopped earlier than he had grown accustomed to. Though he wanted to keep moving, he could see how taxing the day had been on her. Instead of pushing her to continue, he indulged her weakness and let them stop for the night. Her eyes were stormy, and he knew that she was processing everything that had happened and what it all meant.

They ate in silence, but Arya hardly got anything down. She handed the rest of her meal over to Gendry.

"It's making me sick," was all she offered by way of explanation.

The next moments were spent with him finishing her meal and her studying the fire. Her attention was lost in the flames, and Gendry thought he saw a spark of her former vitality as she stared. Finally pulling her gaze away, she moved closer to him before lying down next to him and curling into his side.

Sleep descended upon her quickly. Maneuvering carefully so as not to wake her, Gendry positioned himself so that his body was wrapped around hers. His knee knocked against her, and she stirred. He cursed, but it was too late. She was awake again. Ghostly grey eyes found his. They flicked down to his chest, where her tiny fists had again found their way to grasp the fabric there.

Pulling one of them free, he pressed a kiss against her knuckles, and she closed her eyes at the contact. A broken sob slipped out, and she was quick to suppress it against his solid chest. The fabric was soaked within minutes, and he rubbed her back with broad, soothing strokes until her wretched cries finally came to an end.

Muffled, almost incoherent words came from her, and Gendry jerked down his head to better hear them.

"They are lost. And so am I."

"No, you're not."

"Where am I to go? I have no family, and I have no home."

"You have me."

"But for how long? You have already tried to leave me once. You will leave again. Just like everyone else."

"Unless you wish me gone, I will never leave you again. I mean that more than you can ever know. I wish you could believe me, though I know you have no reason to."

"So give me a reason."

"I love you."

The sentiment had been building inside of him for months, always threatening to spill from his lips. For so long, he had held the words in check, always afraid of the effect they would have on her. Simply, he said it now, without grand declaration or dramatic gesture. It was just a naked truth that rested between them, and it wasn't until he said it that he realized just how deeply he meant it.

Everything about her haunted and bewitched him. Her essence was so loomed with his that he could barely distinguish himself from her. Even if he could disentangle his self from hers, he wouldn't want to. She was as much a part of him as were his limbs, and he could more readily do without them than her.

It didn't trouble him that she didn't respond; he didn't expect her to. Even breathing fell against his skin, and he suspected that she had fallen back asleep. Her shifting movements proved him wrong, however, and though he felt himself drifting, he resolved to stay awake until she was peaceably settled.

He was jolted into alertness when he felt her lips, light as a feather, pressing against his chest. Soft and quick, her kisses peppered lightly over his skin, lingering fleetingly. He didn't dare move, let alone breathe, for fear of frightening her off. Desire stirred in the pit of his stomach as her lips reached his neck. Unconsciously, his hands came to pull her tightly against him.

A hiss escaped his mouth as she came to suck his pulse point. Her teeth grazed his skin, and his fingers dug into her back, pulling at her, begging her for more. He felt her quivering in his grasp as her lips came to hover above his. He longed to close the distance between them, but restrained, lust stirring within him.

It was a bad precedent to set, he knew, for this to be her solace, but he couldn't find himself to turn her away, especially after their mouths finally crashed together. Greedily, he tangled her fingers through hair and pulled her toward him. Their teeth clashed against each other in their urgency, and their bodies seemed clumsy and cumbersome as they fought to get at one another.

Capturing her bottom lip in his teeth, he bit it lightly and pulled at it, savoring her whimpers and moans of desire. His hands slid down to caress her bottom, causing her to gasp and arch into him. Hands splayed against his chest; fingers curled, threatening to bruise him. Tentatively, they slipped lower, finding his hardness.

Her lips faltered, but her hand stayed where it was. Both pairs of eyes shot open and bore into one another, grey drowning in blue. Desire pooled between her legs, and unfamiliar urges overcame her. Alarmed, she quickly withdrew her grasp and pulled her knees up between them, creating a barrier.

He could feel his disappointment, but it wasn't bitter. He was far too concerned about her to worry about his own release. Both hands left her body and found her fingers. Pulling her palms to his lips, he kissed them languidly, allowing the tenseness within her to subside. When she became less rigid in his arms, he pulled her close again, and she let him, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck.

Again, he lost her to the blackness of sleep, and she lost herself to dreams.

Morning brought them to uncertain ground. Gendry didn't want to initiate anything without her permission, and Arya didn't want to cross any more lines that they couldn't come back from. She didn't quite know how to account for what had passed between them last night. In the throes of so much loss and misery, Gendry had been a comfort for her, not just last night, but ever since she had left King's Landing. It had never occurred to her to want anything more from him than friendship, but the cravings that had guided her last night transcended mere want of security.

The first time he'd kissed her, she hadn't known what to think. It was so strange and new, and she was in such shock that she hadn't had a chance to respond. Anger had also been bubbling within her, and she'd had to wrestle with that on top of her desires. Last night had been different on so many levels. She had needed him last night, more than she ever had before. When she reached for him, it wasn't conscious thought, it was instinct.

For most of her life, she had been used to being independent and self-sufficient. Gendry was a shift in that perspective. Dependence on him was second nature. It worried her but not enough to push him away. Need for him was a pull she couldn't fight, and it was forever dragging them together.

All of this, she mulled over as they trekked through the wilderness, the monotony of their circumstances almost depressing. Their hands knocked together with their steps, their pinkies grazing and locking together every now and then.

At midday, they stumbled across an inn, a welcome sign of civilization. She had some money she had taken from the Brotherhood, and she knew Gendry knew this without having to ask. With Gendry's hand resting lightly on the small of their back, they entered, blinking in the dim light after being in the bright afternoon sun.

Knowing what she wanted without asking, Gendry told the innkeeper that they needed only one room. She glared suspiciously at the two of them but chose not to comment on their dirty, vagrant state and instead led them into the common area for lunch.

Arya froze on the threshold when her eyes fell on the group of men clustered in the corner. Following her gaze, Gendry saw what had given her such a shock. Muttering darkly amongst themselves, The Brotherhood hunched together, looks of mutiny upon their faces.

Drawn by the intensity of their stares, Beric's head snapped up, his mouth gaping slightly in shock. Other heads swiveled to stare at them both, but all eyes invariably slid to her. Sadness and pity emanated from them, and a general sense of mourning was pervasive from their corner. _They knew_. Beric motioned for her to come forward, and it took a slight nudge from Gendry to get her feet moving.

She had barely come to terms with Robb and her mother's deaths, and she spent most of her time suppressing the agony they caused. The loss was written all over their faces, and she wasn't sure she could face it. Men bunched together on the bench to make room for them, and Gendry's arm came protectively around her as they joined them. She wanted to resent his defensive act, but she leaned heavily against him instead. She wasn't going to get through this without them.

"Is it true?"

Thoros spoke without preamble, and in his eyes, she saw a flicker of hope.

"Yes," she replied numbly.

A collective gasp rippled across the table, and Gendry's arm tightened around her. Some men glared into their drinks while others shook their heads sadly at the table. Thoros looked crushed, but Beric merely stared at her, his eyes hard and his mouth in a grim line.

"The Freys will get theirs in the end. They violated the sacred guest right, and they will suffer for it."

"There is no great enough punishment for what they've done."

Thoros nodded at Arya's words. Beric's eyes tightened as he studied at her.

"The universe is all about balance, Arya Stark. Nothing happens that shouldn't. The Lord of the Light never takes what he doesn't need, but sometimes, he gives something back."

She didn't have the patience for his riddles, and she didn't have the heart to keep talking about loss. Pushing up from the table, she leapt away from them, anger swelling in her breast.

"My mother is moldering in a river. Why don't you ask your Lord of the Light if he'd like to give her back!"

Practically spitting out the words, she was shaking so hard with anger, she barely registered Gendry's light touch leading her away.

After he'd guided up the stairs and to their room, she threw herself on the bed, angrily pummeling the pillow. He watched her uncertainly. There were so many questions he wanted to ask her, but he knew she needed time. Positioning himself in a chair in the corner of the room, he watched as her belligerent form relaxed and her angry breathing slowed to a more calm rate.

Dusk had fallen when she finally sat up and met his gaze. Her hand reached for him plaintively, and it was all the invitation he needed to join her. Scooping her up, he let her settle in his arms, relishing the way her head rested against his shoulder. Unwilling to broach a subject that would cause her pain, he bit back his questions about her mother. She brought up the subject on her own, in a frail voice that he had never heard her use before.

"I dreamed about her last night. I was walking through the woods, and I looked up and saw The Towers, and ahead, on the banks of the river, I could see her crumpled body. When I got closer, I saw…it was horrible. She was bloated and pale and her throat was slit and…she was dead. She _is_ dead."

"It was only a dream."

"But it was real. I could tell. I was there, but I wasn't me. I was Nymeria."

Cagily, she looked up at him, daring him to call her crazy. But he only looked calmly back, taking her at her word.

"That sounds horrible." His voice was tender and didn't push her to say more.

She laughed hollowly. "What isn't these days?"

He made no answer. He only drew her closer, his hands rhythmically rubbing circles along her back. Each lost in their own thoughts, they both stared at the opposite wall. The wisps along her hairline fluttered with his breathing and tickled his nose. Absentmindedly, she seized his hands and measured her own against them. They were rough hands, blacksmith's hands, covered in scars and callouses. Her dirty hands had cuts and scrapes of their own, and some of them would turn into scars in time. They weren't hands that belonged to a lady.

While she played with his hands, he brought his lips to massage her scalp, whispering words of comfort in between kisses. Before long, she brought his hands up to her mouth and pressed soft kisses into his palms. Her smooth plumpness brushed against his ragged skin. He dipped his nose beneath her hair and nuzzled the nape of her neck.

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin there, and it wasn't long until she turned so that she was facing him. He turned his attention to space just below her jaw, biting and sucking at the flesh there. Ragged gasps escaped her mouth as she brought her hands beneath his shirt.

Tentative caresses grew bolder, and soon, she was pushing his shirt up over his head. Surprised, he let her, shivering as both the cold air and her teasing hands ran over his bare chest. Cloying kisses pressed across his abdomen and up to his lips. Arya was everywhere, and he felt practically drunk with her.

Easing back, she started wrestling with the hem of her own tunic. Knowing what she wanted, he leaned over and helped her, lifting it tenderly over her head. Shyness took over, and for the first time since he'd known her, she looked insecure about herself. Her eyes fell to her fingers, which were knotted together in her lap.

His fingers hooked beneath her chin and pulled up on it gently. Their kisses stopped, and so did their touches, but the heat lingered between them. She could see in his eyes that he wouldn't go further if she didn't want him to. Stubborn grey eyes met his, set in determination. She knew what she wanted.

Moving forward, she claimed his lips again, and his big hands closed around her and returned to stroke her. Unwilling to break their contact again, she wiggled carefully out of her breeches and smallclothes, finally exposed before him.

Hungry blue eyes canvassed her skin, taking in every inch of her. His hands followed his gaze, trailing over her cheek and down her neck and finally coming to caress the small mound of her breast. She jumped slightly, both at the newness of the contact and the roughness of his touch against the tender skin. His hand stilled, only continuing when she leaned forward eagerly, pressing into his hand, wanting more.

Frantic kisses, full of need, pressed down her neck and grazed her collarbone. Her breathing was ragged as she clutched his head and pulled him ever closer. Her thin legs came to wrap around him, and she exulted at the feeling of her nakedness pressed against him. She felt his hardness beneath her, and with a thrill, she realized that only a thin strip of fabric stood between them.

A throaty moan escaped her lips as she felt his mouth close over one of her breasts. With a soft whimper, she ground against him, desperate for something she didn't even realize she needed. His tongue flicked over her raised peak, and her cries hitched higher and louder.

His hands slipped lower, headed for the bunch of dark curls centered below her hips. As his fingers traced down her side and skimmed over her stomach, he suddenly stopped with his ministrations. Pulling away, he ran his eyes over her bare form again, seeing things he hadn't noticed before.

Bruises were littered all over her body. Some were old, brown, yellow, and fading. Others were purple, green, black, and fresh. Cuts and scrapes, red and angry, crisscrossed over her fragile skin. Scabs were just beginning to form over some, and others were deep and weeping. Thin white scars were woven in with the other colors. They painted a grotesque rainbow of pain and injury across her pale skin, stretched taut over her bones.

After he'd gotten over the initial shock of seeing the marred and mangled mess of her body, he was able to realize the meagerness of it, too. Her collarbone jutted out sharply beneath her bony shoulders, clearly visible beneath her translucent skin. Wonderingly, he ran his thumb across it, finding the bone to be thin and so easily breakable.

She was still breathing heavily, and he could see her chest rise and fall with the beating of her heart. Confusion colored her features and her eyes studied him from over the sharp planes of her cheekbones. _How could he not have seen it before?_ She was wasting away. Pain and stress and hunger and hardship had robbed her already small frame of its vitality and health. There was no suppleness; there was no excess flesh; there were no soft curves anywhere on her. She was skin and bones.

His hands dropped to her ribs, but he didn't need to touch them to know they were there. He could see the outline of each one straining against her skin. His touch flowed around to her back and found her spine. He could feel each and every knot in her spine.

Slightly nauseated, he could scarcely stand to look anymore. Her legs were still wrapped around him, and though he could still feel residual lust for her, what he was more aware of were her hipbones pressed sharply against him. His fingers curled around their grooves. Her stomach sank below them, forming a hollow thinness.

Her delicacy opened a gaping fear within him. She was broken inside and out, and he had no way of putting her together again. Encouraged by his renewed contact, she leaned forward to kiss him again, tugging at the laces of his pants as she did so. Firmly, he captured her wrists—small enough that he could wrap his hands around them twice over—and drew them away.

He wanted her dreadfully, and she wanted him too, but he knew it wasn't what she needed right now. This was her form of escape, and though he would give anything to take away the pain, he couldn't let her run away from it now. If he let her suppress what had happened, she would lose a bit more of herself. For the sake of her humanity, she needed to face the loss and heal. He wanted to satisfy her physical desires, but he needed to be her emotional support even more.

It was with deep regret that he pushed her away. Hurt blossomed across her face, and he knew she didn't understand. Her lips found his again, pushing him for a response, but he only answered her with a short, chaste kiss.

"Gendry, what—?"

"We can't do this Arya. Not now. Not like this. It's not what's best for you. You're not in your right mind, and I won't take advantage of you like this."

"You're not taking advantage! You're giving me what I want."

"No, love. What you want is not what you need. And I will give you both in time, but for the immediate future, I have to focus on the latter."

"Fine," she snapped. "Then what I _need_," she spat, thrusting her tunic back over her head, "is you as far away from me as possible."

"Okay," he replied calmly, not rising to meet her in anger.

With one final kiss to the side of her head, he left her and settled himself on the floor. He heard the bed shift, and he chanced a glance in her direction. He was met with the sight of her little body curling into itself, looking strangely lonely in the massive expanse of the sheets.

* * *

**Whew! Now that that's done, I have a couple of notes/comments. **

**So first off, I get that Arya is a strong character, but loss breaks down even the best of us, and I've always seen Arya as a bit more vulnerable than others do. I think people get so wrapped up her wildness and stubbornness that they forget that her fierce love for people is what makes her act so rashly and defensively. And I think that when she lost so many of the people she fought for, she lost a bit of her own fight. It will be coming back—and with a vengeance—so don't worry. The last thing I want to do is write Arya OOC, but at the same time, I'm trying to stay faithful to my perception of her.**

**Okay. Done with my philosophical analysis haha.**

**Secondly, I looooove reading smut. Like seriously. But, I can't write smut. Believe me, I've tried. There are several failed attempts saved on my computer, but it all reads awkwardly and awfully, and it just seems to be something I cannot do. I guess what I'm saying is don't expect something too explicit. Hopefully, in the future that will change, but for now, it's staying pretty PG-13. As with all things, practice makes perfect, so I will keep trying til I overcome!**

**I had too much to say, apparently. Maybe if I updated more, these intenso long notes wouldn't be necessary!**

**I hope y'all had a fabulous Labor Day lovelies! xxx**

**PS a whole lot of SanSan is coming.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Big notes are at the end of the chapter. All I'll say here is the usual: GRRM owns all characters and ASOIAF. I get no profit for writing this!**

* * *

The dark of night ebbed away, and so did her anger. Morning brought stagnated calm, and it wrapped thickly around her and squeezed her tightly. All of the pain was still there, and its ragged edges chafed her raw. The bed was wonderfully warm and comforting, and she buried deeper into the sheets that encased her.

No. Those were Gendry's arms that held her. Instantly, anger returned. _How dare he come back when she had sent him away_? Her eyes flew open as she prepared to push him away.

But it was not the mattress that she felt beneath her. The hardness of the floor pressed against her as she realized that she was on the ground. _How did she get there_? She had no memory of coming to him; she only remembered her feverish dreams from the night before. In them, she had been running through the darkness, trying to find Winterfell. Trying to make it home. And she had woken up in Gendry's arms.

Wonderingly, she stared at his worn face, pulled taut with worry, even in sleep. Unthinkingly, she traced his features, running her fingers over the bags under his eyes and coming to caress his firm chin. He really was handsome. Heat flushed to her face and pooled just below her stomach at the thought.

She was suddenly extremely aware of the proximity of their two bodies. Her breath caught a bit as her touch grazed down to his chest, feeling the muscles there. Unconsciously, she wiggled closer to him, wanting to feel the heat of his body against hers.

Their sleeping positions, the same for months now, felt entirely different in the pale light of morning. Everything had changed after last night. He was still the same Gendry as before, but her perspective on him had altered.

Where once, his body had only been a reassuring warmth next to hers, it was now a curious new temptation. His arms, once merely a refuge, were now an invitation to do more. His hands, always there to reach out and help her before, now represented a whole other range of possibilities for touches and caresses. His hands were strong and capable and tender and loving. His hands had held her for months. His hands had stroked her and embraced her. His hands had awakened a fledgling lust in her.

His hands had pushed her away.

She recoiled at the thought, and her cheeks were hot with embarrassment as she remembered his rejection. Of course he couldn't want her. She was a scrawny little girl who looked like a little boy. She was blunt and brash and belligerent. Men didn't want girls like her. Gendry didn't want a girl like her.

They had entangled in the night, and she was careful to extract herself now. Her bare feet made next to no sound as she softly padded back to the bed. She tucked into the covers, keeping a watchful gaze on him as she lay down. A troubled look crossed his face at her absence, and his fingers grasped at air as he tried to find her in her sleep.

It seemed odd that he would reach for her if he didn't want her in that way, but she supposed it was more a force of habit than a compulsion driven by desire. And yet, he had said that he loved her. And in the moment he'd said it, she knew it was true. But maybe he'd only meant it in a familial way, the way you'd love a sister. But if that was true, then why had he kissed her? The first time they'd kissed, he'd been the one to initiate it, and last night, he had returned her affections readily enough. The desire hadn't been one-sided. But he hadn't taken it further. He had turned her away.

And what had she really wanted from it? What did she want from _him_? She had wanted his body desperately, had needed him to satisfy the craving, yes, but it was more than that. When she thought about him, her heart surged with more than lust. There was a fondness there, a deeper attachment to him. They had a bond that transcended communication, and when she tried to imagine it being broken, unparalleled fear consumed her. Theirs was a communion of spirit, and it was dearer to her than life itself. _Was that love_?

She loved her family, but the way she felt about Gendry was deeper, more profound. Love for her parents and siblings was simple, but her relationship with him was complex. It was reflexive, instinctive, natural. The thought of loving one more person she could lose terrified her, but she had already become too far entrenched in this relationship with him. She had absorbed him so that he was a part of her. She had conflated her identity with his. She didn't know who she was without him.

But this was ridiculous. It was Sansa who dreamed about true knights and true love. It was Sansa whose head was full of romantic songs and foolish dreams. Sansa was all demureness and delicacy. Not Arya. Arya knew better than to think that there was a happy ending to all of this, and she wasn't senseless enough to believe that a man would deliver it for her.

She turned her back on his still-dozing form, too tired to think about it all. Despite the fact that she had spent the last several days sleeping, exhaustion still pulled at her eyelids. She was just starting to succumb to it when she heard Gendry stirring. The deep thud of his footsteps echoed across the room, and she closed her eyes, feigning sleep. His heavy gait came to a pause, and she could sense him hovering over her.

A gentle hand came to rest on the small of her back. The touch was so brief that she didn't even have time to react. Warmth from his hand lingered after he withdrew it, leaving her skin tingling in its wake. He moved away from the bed and left the room. She fell asleep in truth, delving again into the depths of her unconscious.

The next thing she was aware of was his bulk settling beside her. Unwillingly, she felt her body roll into him, falling into the groove his weight created. Her eyes fluttered open to find his gaze evenly trained on her.

"What?" she grunted as she shifted into a sitting position and dragged her body away from his.

"I got us breakfast."

Wrinkling her nose at the bread he was pushing at her, she shoved it away. Worry coloring his features, he stared at her with nothing short of begging in his eyes.

"Arya, please."

She took it from it and laid it in her lap without taking a bite. They sat side by side on the bed, not talking and not touching, carefully studying the opposite wall as though it held some secret meaning for them.

"I saw Thoros and Beric when I went down. They were on their way out—"

"Good. Then they won't be bothering us. I'm leaving as soon as possible. If you're coming with me, great. If not, fine." Her heart pounded with the possibility of him choosing not to go with her, but she fought to maintain aloofness in her tone and her posture.

"That's the thing. Only Thoros and Beric are leaving. The rest of The Brotherhood is staying…to make sure that we don't go anywhere."

"Why the hell would we stay?"

"Thoros said he and Beric would be back soon. The business they're attending to pertains to us."

"I'm not at their beck and call anymore. I'm so sick of people trying to control me and regulate my behavior. From now on, I'm doing what I want to do. And I want to go."

"And where are we going to go?"

"So it is _we_ then?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"You seemed pretty eager to be rid of me last night."

Her words fell awkwardly between them, weighing heavy with bitterness and hurt. Absentmindedly, she began tearing at the bread, shredding it to bits in her lap. The crumbs piled up, and still her hands ripped at them. Concernedly, his massive hand closed over her tiny ones.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

Her eyes stung, and her cheeks burned. She did _not_ want to talk about last night.

"It's not that I didn't want you. Because I did."

She shrugged but let him continue. He sighed and moved her uneaten breakfast away.

"Arya, look."

He held up her arm between them.

"What about it?"

"Look how thin you are. I can see your bones right through your skin. When I look at you, all I see is how damaged you are."

"I disgust you," she nodded, accepting it as a foregone conclusion.

Taking in her rankled expression, he sputtered, trying to explain himself better.

"No! Not at all! It's the very opposite."

Rough hands came to her face. Closing her eyes against his touch, she felt his thumbs rub her cheeks.

"I worry about you. And I know I'm stupid for it," he said, interrupting her before she could even form the words, "but I can't ignore how frail you are. I just want to help you. Even if you fight me on it, and even though you say you don't need protection, I'm never going to stop trying to take care of you."

"So, take care of me," she whispered suggestively, moving over to him and lifting herself into his lap. With her legs drawn up beneath her, she brought her knees to straddle him and started laying delicate kisses across his collarbone and up his neck. She felt the submission of his body going slack beneath her touch, and she took it for permission to go further.

He met her kiss with equal, pleading passion. She felt him harden beneath her, and she smiled into his mouth. Her hands moved to the laces of his trousers. Again, he stopped her. Instead of injury, she felt annoyance.

"Arya—"

"I know! I know! We can't. Not like this." Her words came out in a deep imitation of his voice, and he knew she was making fun of him.

A small, sad smile played across her face.

"You know, your damned nobility is going to be the death of me."

"Then it will probably be the death of us both."

With mirthless laughter, she swung herself off of the bed and stood up, clad only in her tunic from the night before. Not even bothering to avert his eyes, he watched her find her breeches and wiggle into them.

"So, what business do Thoros and Beric have, anyway? And what does it have to do with us?"

"No idea. What do you say we stick around and find out?"

"Fine. But we're not going to stay with them after we find out what they're up to. As soon as I figure out where we can go, we're leaving."

He nodded, not bothering to mention what she already knew: there was nowhere left _to_ go.

* * *

The light on the return to Riverrun was much bleaker than the journey leaving it. There was no hope now. There was no pride. There was no future.

Robb limped through the wreckage with Grey Wind shuffling at his side, nose to the ground. Based on the smoldering state of the campsite, there had been some kind of struggle here. With mounting fears, he urged his broken body to move faster. Frantically, he looked around, and his gaze landed on the grey creature beside him.

"Come on, boy, find her, please."

Grey Wolf stared back, intelligence glinting in his yellow eyes. A moment later, the wolf bounded off, investigating the ruins some distance away. He began digging, whining at his master.

Robb stumbled over to him, praying to the old gods and the new that it wasn't her body he was about to face. The trip back had been grueling, even if he had spent half of it on Grey Wind's back. Both man and wolf were entirely shattered and sapped of energy, but somehow, they had carried through. Grey Wind had endured out of sheer devotion to his master, and Robb had pushed himself past human ability with the only object of getting to her.

But Jeyne was nowhere to be found. All that Grey Wind held between his teeth was a ripped dress. He knew it was hers. Kneeling down, he found several more dresses, all torn apart and strewn across the ground.

She had been his only source of strength, and her absence came as a staggering blow. The ripped clothes, the destroyed campsite, all of it made him feel hopeless and desperate. Sinking to the ground, he brought his hands to grip his head and rocked back and forth.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Fate pushed and pulled him. Teased and mocked him. Took people from his life and dangled them in front of him, always out of reach until they disappeared completely.

Jeyne would be different. He would get her back.

* * *

**Sandor and Sansa are coming back, but just not as soon as I anticipated. I thought this chapter was going to be the two of them, but Gendry and Arya won't leave me alone! Sandor and Sansa's story is going to be big, and they're going to be a focal point for a long time soon enough, but Gendry and Arya are going to pull focus for a couple more chapters.**

**That said, I will be checking in with the others, and I haven't even gotten to Bran, Rickon, Jon, Jamie, or ****Daenerys **yet, just to name a few! I guess I have my work cut out for me!

**Anyway, these last couple of chapters have been slow-moving, and I'm sorry for that. I'm a sucker for dramatics and characterization, so sometimes I stagnate the plot in favor of those. The action will pick up soon, and the plot will progress at a much quicker rate.**

**Please bear with me! This is going to be a long story, and all of the characters and their stories will be addressed in time! xxx**


	11. Chapter 11

**This one's short, and I'm not thrilled with it, but nothing is perfect, and if I were in the pursuit of perfection, I would toy with this forever, and even then, I still would not be satisfied. Oh well!**

**GRRM gets all credit for all characters and ASOIAF. I don't write this for profit!**

* * *

Their time with The Brotherhood passed uneventfully. Arya chafed under their constant watch, resentfully submitting to being held captive by them. Without speaking to any of the men, she spent as little time in their company as possible, choosing to confine herself to her room as much as she could. Gendry would join her, but not before giving her some time alone first. He knew that she needed time to herself to mourn. After a while, he would come in, and together, they would sit on the bed, their grief much too great to be contained in their confined space.

At meal times, they would join The Brotherhood, and only Gendry would be able to speak to them civilly. Arya rebuffed them all, even Edric, who had been a considerable friend before all of the unpleasantness. Gendry couldn't pretend that he wasn't thrilled to see her indifference. He still bore the boy bitterness, remembering his preference for her and her indulgence of him. The first couple of times they had joined the men in the dining room, Edric had tried to speak to Arya, but she had only replied moodily and monosyllabically, and he had since given up trying to tempt speech from her.

As the men laughed merrily and ate heartily, Arya sat humorlessly in their midst, picking listlessly at her food. Gendry, too, she noticed, had stopped eating. Because he was larger than she, it took a toll faster and more significantly on him. His eyes drooped and his shoulders sagged, and more often than not, he spent his days stooped from diminished capacity. His energy dwindled more every day. He began to worry her, which heightened her annoyance at his self-inflicted harm. One evening, during dinner, as he hefted himself onto the bench beside her with great groans and much anguish, she felt her irritation flare dangerously.

"Gods, why don't you just end your suffering? Either eat something or stop acting so damned pitiful!"

Eyebrows raised, he shot her an appraising look.

"I eat when you do, and only as much as you do."

"That's stupid! You would never get enough to eat; you're much bigger than me, so you need more food."

"You'd better eat a lot, then."

Rolling her eyes, she returned her attention to her meal. It looked greasy and unappetizing, and her stomach heaved at the prospect of having to consume it. Instead, she lifted her water to her lips and took a long drink, noting that Gendry was doing the same. He only lowered the cup when she did, and without warning, her hand shot out and punched him hard in the arm. He grinned at her vexation, relieved to see some of her old self busting through her defeated exterior.

Without enthusiasm, she began shoveling food in her mouth, swallowing it without tasting any of it. Gendry mirrored her, looking visibly relieved, whether it was from finally seeing her eat or being able to satisfy his own hunger, she couldn't tell. After her plate was clean, she felt the bubbling sickness in the pit of her stomach and fought against her body's response to heave it all back up again. Seizing more food, she gulped it down faster, trying to quell the churning within her.

"Hey, slow down. You're going to make yourself sick."

He tried to pull her plate away, but she yanked it back, swallowing thickly. Her hands were on an endless cycle, shoving food down her throat until she was absolutely bloated with it. And still, she continued, thinking that if she could fill herself up enough, it would close the abysmal hole that had opened up inside of her.

"Enough."

Gendry's voice, rougher and more authoritarian than she had ever heard it before, crashed between them, bringing her fitful gorging to a stop. Hard grey eyes bore defiantly into conflicted blue ones. Clutching her stomach, she felt it lurch and roll, and she knew she was going to be sick. Racing from the room, she stumbled outside, landing on all fours in the grass.

Once she had fully purged herself, she lay back on the ground, sick and spent. Gendry sat beside her, sensing, as always, her distress and anticipating her need. She brought herself so that she was leaning up against his sturdy frame. Wordlessly, he produced an entire loaf of bread that he had nicked from the table. She held out her hand, and piece by piece, he broke off bits and passed them to her. Between the two of them, they finished off the loaf quickly, and it heartened Gendry considerably to see that she'd eaten the majority of it.

Tranquil and amicable silence persisted until she drifted off to sleep against him, and he carried her up to bed.

The next few days passed in a more reassuring manner. Arya ate, though sparingly, and some of her color and vitality returned. It was precariously restored, and Gendry still felt that caution would be best exercised to preclude another relapse. Most days, she was morose, and he knew that grief pulled at her mind, and moments of levity were never without the anchor of sadness that brought her spirits crashing down.

When she wasn't glum, she was bored, and inauspiciously so. It irked her to wait around for Thoros and Beric's return, and she often threatened—and these days with more frequency—to put her back to the inn and The Brotherhood without a second glance. Gendry knew that curiosity gnawed at her more than did irritation, so they persisted in waiting, even if it was grumpily so on her part.

* * *

In the pale yellow light of a particularly unassuming morning, Arya awoke to the sound of Gendry's voice. Unwilling to open her eyes, she stretched out and reached over for him. But he wasn't there. Puzzled, she opened her eyes to find him not in the room. It was then that she realized that Gendry's voice was carrying from the other side of the door, and he sounded neither pleased nor calm. In fact, he was shouting unintelligible words, only to be answered by a low rumble of a response.

As the argument continued up the stairs and ended up right outside of her door, she was able to make out some of what was being said.

"You cannot do this to her!"

"Be reasonable, boy. Beric did it for her, and why wouldn't she want to see her?"

"Because," Gendry hissed, "she has seen enough horrors to last a lifetime. She doesn't need to see this, this, _thing_."

"Be careful about whom you speak. That woman is nobility, and you are not fit to look upon her, let alone make imprudent comments about her."

"She isn't a woman. She is some foul, profane creature that Beric had no right to dredge up—"

"She is her mother."

Arya's heart skipped a beat, scarcely believing what she was hearing. Soundlessly, she lifted herself from the bed and flew over the cold stone floor to hover next the door. She was desperate to hear more but terrified at the same time.

"She is on her way up. Move aside, boy."

"No."

The door rattled with force, and Arya knew that he had thrown himself in front of it. There was a whispery hiss, and the door quivered, but she could still sense his bulk on the other side. The same whispered sentiment was repeated, and she heard Gendry's shaky _no_.

"Do as she says, and step away."

"No!" Gendry's words were stronger, more determined than before.

"Gendry?"

It was Arya's voice, careful and confused, that made them all freeze. Gendry stumbled a bit as the door swung away from him, but he recovered quickly, whipping around to face her. The three of them stopped to stare at her standing in the open doorway. She took in first Gendry's anguished face and blue eyes set with fear. Her eyes then traveled to Thoros who appeared torn about something. Finally, her gaze settled on the third and strangest member of the party standing on the landing.

Pale and shriveled, the half-dead woman stared her with angry and appraising eyes. An ugly wound slashed across her throat, and pale scars covered her hands and face. She was a terrifying sight to behold, but that wasn't what knocked the wind out of Arya. It was the features, at once foreign and familiar to her that robbed her of speech and breath.

"Mother?" she breathed in a hoarse voice, barely above a whisper.

* * *

**This is the last chapter for a while that will solely feature Gendry and Arya. The other characters are going to come into play in a big way now, and all of them should feature prominently. i was going to make this chapter longer and include more characters, but everything transitioned awkwardly, so I decided to defer those to the next chapter.**

**That being said, I'm still in the process of writing the next chapter. This upcoming one should be nice and long, and I can finally increase the scope of the story because I ****_finally_**** got the Catelyn/Arya/Gendry story line where I needed/wanted it to be.**

**Thanks for reading! xxx**


	12. Chapter 12

**A reminder before you read this: this is extremely AU. Okay? Okay. I know that information comes as a shock haha**

**A note on the timeline: this is nothing I haven't said before, but it's a bit warped. You're smart. You'll figure it out.**

**Now I'm going to tell you one more thing you already know. GRRM owns all characters and ASOIAF. I don't write for profit!**

* * *

Daenerys looked down at the little dark-haired child with a faint smile playing at her lips. The girl returned her gaze with a grim, serious expression, full of wisdom and maturity beyond her young age. She looked nothing like her mother, save for her violet eyes that were perhaps only a shade or two darker than Daenerys'.

It had been a little over a year and a half since she had borne the child that she had carried in secrecy and misery. After she had lost her husband, she was desolate, suspecting that she had lost their baby, too. She had thrown herself into the fire out of instinct and desperation, knowing that the flames would not consume her, though part of her wished they would. From the blaze, she had emerged victorious, her fledgling dragons erupting from their shells, come back to life again. It had given her immeasurable joy to see them full of power and promise, but a deep sadness still reverberated through her. The loss had hollowed out an emptiness within her.

A few days later, she had awoken in the night with a shout of surprise, her hand flying to her stomach. Her serving girls had come running, alarmed that she should be in distress, but she had sent them away, claiming a nightmare. In fact, it had been the very opposite; it was a miracle that had granted her her wildest hopes and dreams. The fire had made her a mother, four times over.

Despite the hardships she faced in her journey without her husband, her three dragons and the tiny bulge at her middle, shifting with renewed life, gave her comfort and a reason for living that she had previously never suspected possible.

Her pregnancy had not been prominent, and she had easily concealed it for its duration. Only Jorah knew the truth of the girl, though she believed that Ser Barristan had his suspicions. But Jorah had been banished several months ago from their company, and there were moments were she really regretted that she'd had to send him away. He had been the one to deliver the baby after the labor pains had started, and she would have appreciated his continued advising, especially now.

The baby had been nearly a month late, and Daenerys had begun to believe that the gods had given her false hope. Dusk had just started to fall at the end of the third week of the tenth moon when she felt the clenching and searing pains in her womb.

She and Jorah had ridden ahead, giving commands that her people should stay and set up camp for the night. The labor pains were tolerable at first, and she had ridden the horse hard and fast with all the abandon of a proper Dothraki woman. When the contractions became too painful and too close together for her to continue, they had stopped on the outskirts of a small village, and she had given birth to her daughter under the stars, the same way that she had conceived her.

Into her arms, Jorah had laid the most singularly perfect and beautiful creature she had ever in her life seen. As her pudgy little hand reached up and found her mother's, Daenerys felt a thrill of affection and unsurpassable love she would always feel when she gazed upon the marvel that she and Drogo had created.

The witch had told her that Drogo would never return to her, and yet, he had in the form of her daughter. With her dark, blue-black curls, light copper-colored skin, and sharp features, the little one was a true likeness for her father, and it gave Daenerys a bittersweet sort of contentment to look upon her. Indeed, much had happened that was unexpected. The stallion who was to mount the world had been born a girl, and Daenerys wasn't altogether unhappy with this subversion of expectations.

Her Dothraki subjects believed her to be an orphan child she had taken from the village that she and Jorah had returned from, and she allowed this lie to persist, fearing for the girl's safety should her parentage be discovered by enemies in Westeros. Shocked that their khaleesi had taken the babe to her own breast, they whispered of the foolishness of their queen. Some believed that she was deranged by the loss of her khal, but none dared say it within her hearing.

The child was not known to have a name, so amongst them, they'd taken to calling her Athastokhdeveshizaroon: From Nonsense. They'd shortened the cruel name to simply Atha, and she responded readily enough to the title.

Daenerys had sensed them losing respect for her, and the only way to quell their derision had been to carry on with unquestionable strength and leadership. It was why she'd had to dismiss Jorah from her service when he'd failed to show her the proper deference. Watching him leave had been harder than she'd expected, but she couldn't afford to look back.

Instead, she needed to focus on raising her daughter to be a strong and independent woman capable of ruling from the Iron Throne. She had wanted her to know about her legacy, so she encouraged her to learn her father's language and culture. The girl had the same natural austerity and authority as her parents, and the Dothraki had grown as fond of her as such a hard people could be.

With a contented sigh, she bent down and lifted her into her arms, treasuring the warmth of her little body. Her tiny fingers tangled into Daenerys' platinum hair as her eyes lit up in delight as the dragons swooped around them.

"Mama, where?"

Understanding her question, Daenerys gestured to the sea, visible over the railing of the boat.

"Home, Visenya. We are going home."

* * *

Watching mother and daughter interact, Ser Barristan felt a wave of despondency crash over him. He feared for their safety and worried that Daenerys would never trust him enough to let him properly watch over them. Already, she was keeping secrets from him, concealing that the girl was her daughter and not some parentless child she'd plucked from a random village.

He'd guessed at the truth of their relationship almost from the start, but it hadn't been until Jorah Mormont told him that he'd known it for certain. Devastated that he was having to leave them, Jorah had told him that he now had not one, but two royal family members to protect. Though he hadn't known either of them for very long, Barristan felt a compulsion to defend Daenerys and her daughter. They had barely escaped Mereen in one piece, and they couldn't get away fast enough as far as he was concerned.

They faced a long and arduous journey to Westeros, but he never wavered in his determination to stay with them. He would lay down his life for the great queen and the little princess if need be.

His somber thoughts seemed to summon the attention of the little girl, and she turned to look at him with intelligent violet eyes. Though she'd inherited her mother's slight form and her beauty, everything else about her seemed to favor her father. Her skin was a tawny blend of her mother's ivory complexion and the darker chestnut of the Dothraki coloring, and her thick black hair was braided into a complicated fashion that was similar to her mother's. She had stronger features that were sharper than the soft curves of her mother's face. The girl was all angles and grace, and even at her young age, Barristan knew she would grow into a stunning beauty.

He just hoped that that beauty wouldn't be prematurely extinguished.

* * *

Several miles away, somewhere far across the Narrow Sea, a depressed and downcast soul sat in dejection, decanting his sadness into a flagon and drinking it down, toasting great beauty and even greater disappointment. He sat hunched possessively over his ale, nursing dashed hopes and a broken heart. The seediness of his surroundings meant that his hooded and suspicious posture drew neither attention nor ire.

The majority of the inn's guests were of an unsavory nature, and Jorah was just another dirty face in the squalor. He was drunk, and he had been for a while. He wasn't the only one. Late though the hour was, men still littered the room, growing more and more raucous and intoxicated as the hours dragged on. One group in particular was louder than the rest, and Jorah listened to them with growing fury.

"True enough, this country's going to shit! If we had any sense, we'd all go across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities."

"Hell, you don't want to go there! That dragon bitch is over there!"

"I heard she's a pretty enough thing. I wouldn't much mind running into her!"

Jorah's grip on his tankard tightened at the man's lewd meaning.

"You know she likes it rough," another cackled. "I heard that she loved rutting in the sand with that Dothraki like a common animal!"

They all erupted into cruel laughter, and Jorah threw his cup to the floor, shaking in anger. The clattering claimed their attention, and they all turned to look at him. Slowly, he rose, his movements clumsy and his vision bleary from the alcohol. Tension snapped and crackled in the air between them, a fight all but certain.

A firm hand landed on his arm, pulling him back into his seat. Blinking confusedly at the hooded figure that sat beside him, he felt at war between anger and gratitude. After some sluggish consideration, he settled on the latter. With a heavy sigh, he squinted at the stranger, trying to discern his face from the deep folds of the fabric.

"I s'pose I should be thanking you."

"I suppose you should. I probably don't need to tell you this, but it's a really bad idea to be defending the Targaryens in these parts."

He murmured something unintelligible and allowed his grumblings to be drowned in another swallow of ale.

"You are intimately connected to her."

"How can you tell?"

"One broken heart can recognize another."

"After that bastard, Ned Stark, banished me, I spied on the Targaryen girl to get back in the king's good graces."

"And you fell in love with her."

"She is beautiful and intoxicating, and I ruined any hope of a chance I had with her."

"So the rumors of her beauty are not exaggerated, then?"

"They are not."

"And what of the dragons? Are they exaggerated?"

"They are real enough, as are the threat they pose."

"Impossible."

"You will see soon enough. She is sailing for Westeros as we speak."

He drained his tankard and moved away in search of more. He turned to tack on an afterthought only to find that his companion had disappeared.

* * *

**God, that chapter took FOREVER for me to write despite its short length. And rereading it now, it seems kind of boring. **sigh** I'm sorry if this chapter is a disappointment. Setting up characters and constructing back story is hard.**

**On to Dany. I didn't want her bald, so I decided that her hair did not burn off in Drogo's funeral pyre. And that's the biggest change I made to her story. Oh, and she had a baby. What can I say? I'm obsessed with progeny. I always wondered what would have happened if she hadn't lost the baby. She might not have a gentle heart, but I'd be willing to bet she has a soft spot for her daughter!**

**Please be kind to me! Thanks for reading! xxx**


	13. Chapter 13

**Depression. Depression everywhere. **

**Credit goes to GRRM for characters and ASOIAF. I don't write for profit!**

* * *

The ruins of Riverrun were a terror to behold. Sansa walked through it silently. The dirty and torn hem of her gown dragged across the ground, snagging and pulling in the wake of her cautious gait. Sandor watched her, uncertain if he should approach. The stoop of her shoulders grew more pronounced, and he knew that she had built her hopes higher than she wanted to admit on finding her brother. The desertion they faced was an unimaginable blow.

She held her arm out, and he knew that she was reaching out for him. Crossing the space between them in quick, long strides, he offered his arm, and she took it. She leaned heavily on him for support as they surveyed the wreckage. Tucking her head against his shoulder, she closed her eyes. Exhaustion seeped out of her. He didn't know how much more disappointment she could take.

Though it was cruel of him, he was glad that they hadn't found her brother. Once they were back in the company of others, he feared she would discard him and that the comfortable familiarity between them would evaporate. For the little bird's trust in him was complete now. She slept pressed up against him at night, even being so bold as to drag his arms around her so he could hold her while she slept.

Never imagining that a woman would willingly lay beside him, and not one to push one so beautiful away, Sandor often allowed his thoughts to stray as he pictured her body and what it would feel like to run his hands the length of her perfect legs and across her breasts, creamy and inviting underneath her dress. There was no harm in it, he figured, because she would never allow such thoughts to come to fruition, and he would never force her.

The strength of his desire for her would overpower him sometimes, and the throbbing of his arousal would awaken him in the mornings, and he would always have to move away to relieve the pressure. Oblivious to his suffering, she was always touching him now, holding his hand, leaning against his arm, sitting near him when they would eat, and nuzzling against his hold when they would ride Stranger. He was not so foolish as to think that she wanted him in the same way, but it moved him to think that she relied on him so much.

Cursing, he jerked his arm from her grasp. She was making him soft. He needed to kill something soon. Used to his surly and changeful demeanor, she let him go, completely unperturbed. Mournfully, she knelt among the debris, bringing her arms around herself.

Those haunted blue eyes, the ones that broke him every time, dragged painfully up to his face.

"Sandor, what happened here?"

* * *

"Did you know, you are a great inconvenience to me."

He said it lightly, almost cheerfully. The tone was incongruous with his withered body, and his mirthful smile sat ill on his ruined face. Jeyne stared at him resentfully from her bed, pulling her heavy black cloak closer around her body.

"And so rude, too! Won't you join me?"

He gestured to the food in front of him, laid out for them both. This was a daily ritual of his: bringing her lunch, and it was a daily ritual of hers: refusing to join him. Unruffled, Jaime began to eat with gusto, shooting her appraising looks and beguiling smiles. His golden arm glinted in the dusty light filtering in through the window.

Angling her body away from him, she drew her knees up to her chest, counting down the minutes until he would finally go away. Talking to him could lead her into a trap, and couldn't afford any missteps. There were too many secrets she had to keep, and she was carrying the dearest one to her. She clutched her stomach fearfully. With Robb dead, this baby was all she had left.

Jaime was watching her. He was always watching her. Unconsciously, she pulled the folds of the fabric tighter. He stopped eating long enough to heave a theatrical sigh and affix her with a pitying gaze.

"I'm just trying to help you, you know. I'm worried about you. Your mother says you're going mad."

He nodded seriously at her as though her blank face conveyed some expression of outrage or disbelief.

"Ridiculous, really. You're just aggrieved. Although, that terrible display at Riverrun didn't speak well to your sanity."

Closing her eyes, she tried to stop the memories that came flooding back. Jaime had ended the siege of Riverrun, but instead of ending her suffering, he had only brought news that increased it even more. Hearing of her husband's death had been the single most devastating revelation in her life.

"No." It had been her only response to the news and the last word she'd said since he'd brought her here.

The grief had ripped through her and exploded out of her. Half-formed feelings of anger and bereavement took control of her and guided her actions.

She had flown into a rage, ripping apart her tent, hurling her belongings at him. He had stood before her, completely shocked at her reaction. Blackness had started to creep around her vision. Her dress had been heavy, so heavy. She had pulled at the heavy fabric, drenched in her sweat. The collar had crawled up her neck, suffocating her. Her clothes had seemed to grow tighter, trying to compress her into nothing. She had wanted to cry, but it was as though she couldn't draw breath. Her hysterics imploded inside of her; she was drowning inside as well as out.

Finally, she'd ripped herself free of the clothes, thrown them aside, took desperate, gasping, tearing breaths. She had been shaking terribly. She stood, stripped bare before him, and broke into awful, heaving sobs. Each breath she'd dragged in seemed to break her further apart. Jaime's strong arms had come to grip her shoulders, forced her to look at him. She'd clawed at his face, trying to rip his eyes out and scratch away the mouth that had spoken the awful, hateful truth.

She'd wrenched herself away, thrown herself on the bed, shredded the sheets apart. Her remaining dresses had gotten the same treatment. Everything was too brightly colored, too full of false promise. There was no need for a marriage bed, no need for pretty clothes. Utterly defeated, she'd fallen into the dirt and cried herself dry.

When she'd finally composed herself, she had allowed Jaime to wrap her in Robb's cloak and put her on a horse. For the entire journey to The Crag, she had said nothing. Upon their arrival, she had been led to her room, and she hadn't left since. Her mother had no kind words, no open arms, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She never could have imagined that her marriage to Robb would come to such an abysmal end.

"That display was the most horrible thing I've ever seen," Jaime whispered softly, clearly remembering the same things she was. He didn't sound harsh or judgmental, nor did he sound cloying or playful. There was true sympathy in his words.

"Won't you please eat something?" It wasn't a sarcastic invitation. It wasn't a teasing remark. It was a plaintive plea.

"You really need to keep up your strength, if not for your own sake, at least for the baby's."

She froze. Jaime absorbed her scathing look calmly, reading the question in her eyes.

"You were naked," he shrugged. "I looked."

Rising slowly from the bed, she allowed Robb's cloak to fall away to reveal the considerable bump blooming at her stomach, visible through the thin, black fabric of her dress.

"Ah, yes, a _very _great inconvenience to me." He raised his goblet to her and drained it.

"Does my mother know?"

Blinking in surprise at finally hearing her voice, Jaime tried to recover himself.

"No. Not as far as I can tell."

"If you've known this whole time, then why haven't you…"

"Taken care of it?" He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she stared back unflinchingly. Lifting his empty cup, he studied her over the curve of its rim.

"Joffrey is dead, Tywin is dead, and I rather despise Cersei. Tyrion is lost in the wind, so I figured why not cast my lot with you and Baby Robb?"

Jeyne thrilled, trying to absorb all of this information and process it. His words spoke of a man who had nothing left to live for, and he was looking at her with a strange measure of hope.

"Incidentally, when can we expect that bundle of joy to arrive?"

"I-I don't know," she faltered. "I believe seven moons have passed. It should come soon, but I've been bleeding lately. I don't know what it means."

"I'll see if I can find someone to help."

Before she could protest, he swept from the room. Tears leaked from her eyes. _She couldn't lose this baby_.

* * *

"She is going to lose the baby."

Jaime's good hand curled into a fist, and he resisted the urge to punch the maester. He had been waiting in the hall outside her door, hoping against hope for good news.

"What do you mean?" Teeth clenched, vein jumping in his jaw, he advanced menacingly toward the little man.

"The stress of everything that has happened, the fact that she hasn't been eating enough, her overall frailty, it doesn't look promising. It's very likely that she will die, too—"

His words were cut short by the sword running through him. Without thinking about what he was doing, Jaime twisted the sword deeper, making sure it had done its job. With chilling composure, he pulled it out and calmly wiped it clean. The movement was awkward as he had to juggle the sword under his arm and wipe it with the hand that was still functioning. From the shadows of the hall, Lady Sybell emerged, her steely eyes unreadable.

"What baby?"

Without answering, he walked past her. As their shoulders grazed, he paused, turned around, and stabbed her too.

Summoning his men, he turned his back on the dying girl and galloped away. Every good thing he tried to do turned out horribly wrong. Despite his best intentions, his legacy would always be death and destruction.

_It felt good to finally stop caring._

* * *

**Oh, the odious things we do when we have nothing left to lose...**

**I'm feeling inspired today, and I already have about 2000 words of the next chapter done, so I'm crossing my fingers that I can post that tonight!**

**Thanks for reading! xxx**


	14. Chapter 14

**I forgot that I needed to write this before I wrote anything else...so here it is.**

**GRRM gets all credit for ASOIAF and the characters. I don't write for profit!**

* * *

Arya ate quietly beside him. The silence worried him because lately, he was finding that he couldn't always read her. Scrutiny pulled his eyebrows together as he watched her tiny fingers push her plate away and twist together in worried knots. She still wasn't eating as much as he would like, but he didn't press the issue, knowing that she was already on edge.

The Brotherhood was leaving today, and Gendry still didn't know if they were going with them. Arya chewed her lip, and he knew she was considering the same thing.

Thoros sat across the table from them and swallowed uncomfortably. Cracking his knuckles, he tried to gaze around nonchalantly before his stare settled sadly on Arya. Her glare was waiting for him.

"So she's really doing this."

A flash of discomfort crossed Thoros' face, and Gendry wondered if he wasn't as loyal to The Brotherhood's new leader as he pretended to be. Nodding, he finally answered her.

"Yes. She's hell-bent on revenge. She keeps talking about how the enemies of House Stark have to die."

"Fine. I'm taking Joffrey and Cersei's heads."

At her words, Thoros blanched, dropping his eyes to his hands.

"Joffrey is already dead."

The air seemed to still at her shock.

"What do you mean?" Cold, dead words. Gendry's arm snaked around her shoulder and gripped her tightly. She shrugged out of his grasp without tearing his eyes away from the older man. Utterly riveted, she frowned, and her mouth pulled into a taut, grim line.

"Someone poisoned him at his wedding to the Tyrell girl. Rumor holds it that it was the imp that did it, though I have my doubts—"

"His wedding to the _Tyrell _girl? What about Sansa?"

Gendry couldn't even imagine what saying her sister's name cost her. He heard the frail hope at the edge of her words, and his heart ached, sensing that she probably wasn't going to receive good news.

"Your sister disappeared with The Hound on the night of Stannis' failed invasion. No one has seen or heard from her since."

"Oh. Well, I guess that means that I'm the only Stark left living." Her eyes darted away. "Sort of."

The brittleness in her voice undermined the flippancy she was trying for. This time, when Gendry wrapped his arm around her, she didn't shake him off.

"Well," Thoros, stretched out the word and shifted in his seat, discomfited and unsure how to continue. "Your, er, mother, requested that you see her after breakfast."

Arya said nothing, but Gendry saw her eyes tighten at his words.

"What does she want?"

Belligerence colored Gendry's tone, but tiredness shortened his temper, and he was far more concerned about Arya than keeping her mother happy. He had spent far too many sleepless nights with her, talking and comforting, advising and listening, and that this half-woman was the cause of it didn't endear her to him any more. Only once before had Gendry had such a visceral reaction to someone, but where he instantly loved Arya, he had a completely contrary reaction to her mother.

Thoros sighed. "It's probably better if you talk to her."

Something was definitely going on, and Gendry wondered what he was keeping from them. Wordlessly, Arya rose and walked out the door with him trailing behind in her wake.

Her mother, or Lady Stoneheart as the men had taken to calling her, was waiting for them with a permanent frown etched on her face. Her grey and shriveled pallor sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. As she watched them approach with narrowed eyes, Gendry tried not to stare at the deep gash that almost severed her neck in two.

The remnants of what was once Lady Catelyn were a reminder of just how cruel men could be, and he didn't want Arya exposed to any more of it. He knew the woman disapproved of him, and he didn't wonder why. All she talked of was revenge and killing, and Gendry was the only thing that kept Arya's violent tendencies in check. Every day seemed to bring new loss, and it got harder and harder for him to direct her loss away from vengeance.

Her mother fought him on this, constantly mentioning those who were responsible for Stark deaths and urging Arya to seek retribution. For Gendry, she reserved only the coldest, most scathing looks possible. She was bestowing one of those upon him now as they approached her, Arya with weariness, and Gendry, with wariness.

Clasping a hand over her gash so that she could speak, Lady Stoneheart addressed her daughter and ignored Gendry. Because of the great cost at which her words came, she always used as few as possible, and skipping over pleasantries, she was quick to get to what she wanted.

"You will be leading the charge on Harrenhal—"

"—Absolutely not. We went through hell while we were there. We are not going back."

"And I," she cut over Gendry's words, "will be leading the attack on Riverrun."

"I want to kill the Freys for what they did to you and Robb!"

The vehemence in her words chilled his blood. She barely sounded like herself. Listening to her reminded him why he didn't like when she was around her mother; he couldn't stand watching Arya lose herself in Lady Stoneheart's darkness.

Something that would have been a smile on a human face passed over the cold woman's face.

"I will bring back Freys for you to kill."

A grim, humorless sneer curled across Arya's face, and Gendry had to fight the impulse to grab her and run as far away with her as he could.

"When do we leave?"

"You leave immediately. He goes with me."

It took a moment for them both to process that she was pointing a dead, gnarled finger in Gendry's direction. Upon reaching that realization, Arya's face hardened into an uncompromising, forbidding expression.

"No."

Seizing his hand, she held it in an inescapable vice.

"We're not separating again."

"Arya, don't be foolish," she rasped. "This dependence on him is a weakness. Besides, his presence would be a distraction, and you can't afford to lose focus. You go without him or you don't go at all."

Gendry could see Arya's uncertainty increase, and he further resented the woman for digging out Arya's greatest fear and holding it against her. Her hand loosened in his, and he felt it start to slip away.

Making a hurried realization and an even more hurried decision, he pulled her to the side and gripped her cheek to force her to meet his eyes.

"Arya, I know you want to go, and I know what choices lie are at the end of that journey. You will have to decide if you can look another human being in the eye and take his life. If I go with you, I will be a hindrance, but not in the way your mother thinks. If I influence your choices, then they're not really your choices. I think you need to go because I think you need to remember who you are."

As he spoke, he leaned closer and closer to her, his gaze intense and his grip tight. Nodding, she stood on her tiptoes to press her forehead to his. He could see the conflict in her eyes and the latent fear.

"I'm not leaving you. We're just parting ways momentarily. Do what you feel you must, and I will be waiting for you. No matter what."

Arya understood the unspoken sentiment there, and she was grateful beyond words that he would always accept her, even if she dipped into the darkness he was always trying to wrench her from.

Their lips met as they leaned into one another at the same time. They kissed for the first time since the night when he'd pushed her away, and it was filled with even more urgency and fear than before. Her stomach swooped as she felt his warm hands press against the small of her back.

As the kiss deepened, their lips and bodies melded together, and Arya could feel their chests moving with their simultaneous breathing, and she opened her mouth to him, trying to take in as much as possible of him.

It ended far too soon for him, and as he let her go, it was with a sinking feeling in his stomach and a heavy heart. She swung herself up onto her horse and galloped away, determinedly not looking back. Thoros did, however, cast a second glance, and it was so filled with regret and sadness that it only increased Gendry's apprehension.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Gendry unwillingly sought out Lady Stoneheart. None of the men would look him in the eye, and none of them could tell him where she was. Paranoia ebbed at the edges of his mind, and he desperately tried to push it away. Suddenly aware of how much Arya's absence cost him, he ran his hand over his face. He missed her constant presence, and he knew that he would miss her even more at night without her little body curled into his.

His musings were disrupted by the pounding of horse hooves. Lady Stoneheart entered the clearing some moments later, followed by a beautiful red-haired woman with hooded eyes and a beguiling smile. Much to his surprise, the two women approached him, and he saw a spark of interest in the mysterious woman's eyes.

"So this is the bastard." She nodded in approval as she canvassed his face. "He looks just like him."

"So we have a deal," Lady Stoneheart hissed, her voice grating against the air.

As the red hair woman nodded, Gendry felt strong hands grab him and wrestle him away. The unsurprised faces of The Brotherhood enraged him further, and he struggled against the vice-like grip of the men holding him.

"Sorry, boy, but you were in my way."

Following her words, his last conscious thoughts were on Arya. Then, a blow, followed by blackness.

* * *

As they crunched through the woods, Thoros couldn't help but glance continuously at the sky, waiting for the letter bearing the words that would destroy the girl who rode beside him. _One more thing, and his betrayal would be complete_.

It didn't sit well with him, this new direction in which Lady Stoneheart took The Brotherhood, but there was nothing he could do. The Lord of Light had taken Beric's life to restore Catelyn's, and there had to be a reason for it.

The raven swooped low and startled him, and he retrieved the letter from it. He scanned through it, already knowing its contents.

"Arya," he croaked. She turned to him, squinting at the paper in his hands.

"It's from your mother. There was a raid on their camp. They managed to fight them off, but not without casualties."

Her heart caught at the word, and she found that she couldn't breathe all of a sudden.

"Gendry?" His name barely escaped her lips, raw-edged and not any louder than a whisper. He couldn't bring himself to form the words, so all he did was shake his head.

Her face crumpled, and Thoros' loyalty to Lady Stoneheart wavered. He couldn't tell this lie.

"Arya," he began, but he was too late. She was gone. She took off through the trees, galloping hard and fast, needing to leave it all behind. There was nothing left to live for, nothing left to fight for. Everything that made her who she was had been broken and taken from her. She ran and ran and ran and ran.

* * *

"Valar morghulis."

* * *

**...And now it's done. I hate this chapter. Gendry and Arya are my babies, and why can't they just stay togetherrrr! I put off writing this because I didn't want it to happen, but it had to. :C**

**Yes, I used the twist that the show had with Gendry taking Edric's place, but I'm taking it in a completely different direction, I swear!**

**Now, things are going to get...interesting...and...complicated.**

**Thanks for reading/reviewing/sticking with me! xxx**


	15. Chapter 15

**I had a super long chapter written, and part of that is here. I had to defer posting it so I could write the previous chapter, and then I decided to break everything else up because it jumped around too much. Cohesion is hard to achieve when all of the characters are so far away!**

**GRRM gets credit for ASOIAF and all characters. I don't write for profit!**

* * *

Bran stoked the fire, trying to divine _something_ from the flames. Across the orange glow, Meera watched him with her green eyes, sparkling brightly in the dim light. Her brother also watched him with dark eyes and an unreadable expression. As was always true of the nights spent in their company, he felt the oppression of their expectations and the apprehension at the mystery surrounding their circumstances. He was still unsure of how to feel about them. They had come to help him, and he was grateful for the guidance, but it worried him that he had become the one doing the leading because he didn't know where he was going.

Rickon was already asleep, and Osha stood protectively over him. She had been uneasy since the Reeds had joined their party, resenting the intrusion and distrusting their intentions. This only added to Bran's confusion, and he felt far too young to be making such judgments and decisions. It was with very little cause that he trusted the siblings, and should he have decided incorrectly, their betrayal could prove devastating.

But when he stared at Meera, he found nothing but warm feelings for her, and something deep within him told him that she would prove nothing but good for him. Despite his sullenness, Jojen gave off a similar impression, though Bran felt less attachment to him.

Responsibility weighed heavy on him. All of these people were relying on him and following his path, and he worried about its meandering route and uncertain conclusion. The fire diminished to embers under his watchful gaze, both of them burning for hours. Slowly, one by one, his companions drifted off to sleep. Troubling thoughts still plagued him, and sleep eluded him as it did most nights. So intent was he upon his musings that he didn't notice Meera waking nor did he notice her movements in his direction. It wasn't until her hand landed on his shoulder that he realized that she was awake and beside him.

At her touch, his head snapped up, blood pounding in his ears from his erratic heartbeat. She smiled kindly at him, and he found that he rather liked the expression. He maybe even loved it.

"It's a tricky business, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Looking for answers."

He smiled slightly at her words before finally answering her.

"I feel more as though I'm looking for questions."

"It would seem that you already have plenty of those. They're written right there in the wrinkles of your forehead and the creases around your eyes."

Allowing the tension to drain from his face, he tried to laugh if off lightly, but it came out sounding constricted and strangled.

"We are only children, and I can't help but feel that we are facing forces that are older and more dangerous than we can ever know. I close my eyes and I can't find my center. I feel so disconnected from it all: my family, my purpose, myself."

She listened to his words in accepting silence, not questioning the abrupt change in conversation and understanding the words he was trying to say, both spoken and unspoken.

"You are not going to fail, Brandon Stark."

* * *

Sansa stirred discontentedly, stretching her hands but not finding the warm body she was seeking. Roused by his absence, Sansa sat up sleepily, looking for Sandor in the pale dawn light. He was standing over her, sword drawn, a menacing fierceness in his eyes. From his posture, she could tell something was wrong. Keeping her mouth shut, she felt the fear course through her and propel her to her feet.

Her head at his shoulder, Sansa felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and chills skittered across her skin. She could hear the sounds of the forest, humming and clicking along as though nothing was wrong, but underneath those, she could hear far more sinister, far more human sounds. Sandor's massive hand pushed her behind him, and she clutched at his cloak fearfully.

The sounds grew louder and more defined, and she could hear the scraping of steel and the snorting of horses. The compulsion to run built in her legs as her muscles tightened in preparation to flee. But there was nothing left to run. The clanking of armor and the clomping of hooves came from all around them, and Sansa knew that they were surrounded.

Realizing the same thing, Sandor turned to her and looked at her in anguish. Cupping her face, he looked for a way to tell her goodbye. He wanted the last thing he saw to be her face, the last thing he felt to be her soft skin. They drew together, and Sansa was sure he was going to kiss her again. Beneath the adrenaline from the terror, she felt her heart beat up in excitement and anticipation.

They were broken apart by the emergence of the riders bursting into a circle around them. They were not knights or members of the Kingsguard, Sansa could tell. They were too ragged and too few to be sent by Joffrey, but they were too well-organized to be just an unruly group of bandits. She shrunk further behind Sandor. He bared his teeth and gripped his sword tighter.

Their leader rode forward, swathed and concealed in a dark cloak. As the hood lowered, Sansa gasped when she saw what lay underneath. Even Sandor staggered back when he glimpsed what was beneath the fabric.

The woman's head was little more than a skull with pools of grey flesh sagging down the sharp bones of her skeletal face. Her eyes were dead and haunting and angry, and they sought her out as she wrapped her arms around Sandor's waist and buried her face between his shoulder blades.

"Sansa."

It took her several minutes to realize that her name had shuddered forth from the ashen woman's cracked lips. There was eerie familiarity to her to her voice, and her blood ran cold as ice. Sandor drew her out, bringing her further into view but keeping her firmly at his side, under his arm.

Trembling, she made no reply. She could barely draw her eyes up to the deteriorating woman's face.

"My Lady Sansa," a man's voice spoke quietly from the crowd, "do you not know your lady mother?"

There was a sharp, bitter irony in his words, and wonderingly, Sansa shook her head. _It couldn't be_.

Feeling as though her head was disconnected from her body, she walked toward the woman who was now holding out her hand to her. The sound of rushing air flooded through her ears, she had to remind herself to breath as she stumbled before the lady that was supposed to be her dead mother. No, not dead. Somehow resurrected.

Her pale, quivering hand extended toward the paler, steady one offered to her. As they made contact, Sansa crumpled to the ground.

* * *

His progress was slow, and frustratingly so. Grey Wind circled around him, whining and prompting him forward. Robb pressed his hand to his snout, grateful for his presence, but weary from the constant travelling. He had only stopped a couple of times to rest at an inn he would stumble across, and even then, it was only because he was practically dead on his feet.

Grey Wind led him unfailingly, waited for him, kept him out of sight from others. If it hadn't been for the large wolf, he never would have made it this far. There were moments when he doubted the animal, but his faith in their continued progress buoyed him. As they drew nearer to The Crag, Robb felt his heart surge with hope.

She was here, he could feel it.

* * *

Gawen watched the waves crashed against the shore from his window. Utterly bereft, he heaved a heavy sigh and wondered how his family had gotten to this point. Seeing the water ebb and flow against the rocks, he began to understand how even the strongest things could wear down under pressure.

"My lord?"

Snapped from his reverie, Gawen jerked around to regard the timid and frightened-looking maid, suspecting that she had been there for a while. As a confirmation of this suspicion, she looked at him with a question in her eyes, clearly waiting for an answer.

"What did you say?"

"Someone is coming to the door."

Too defeated to even care, he lumbered away to greet the visitor himself. The serving girl was all that was left of his household, the rest either being dismissed or leaving on their own. Wrenching open the heavy, wooden door, he was brought to a shocked halt.

Based on descriptions he'd received from his daughter, the direwolf, the red hair, blue eyes, and once-handsome features had to mean that Robb Stark was coming to his door. The boy was haggard looking and half-dead. His eyes drooped, and his skin sagged, a clear sign of rapid weight loss. With slow, belabored movements, he limped forward. The boy faltered, and Gawen ran out to catch him. Supporting most of his weight, he helped the fallen King in the North inside.

An emaciated hand came to grab the front of his tunic with surprising force.

"Where is she?"

* * *

**I just have to fix up the rest of the chapter I broke in half, and then that should be up later. I won't say it will be up tonight, because whenever I say I'm going to do something at a certain time, I always fail, but I've been pretty inspired lately, and writing this has gone easier and quicker, so we'll see!**

**Thanks for everything, y'all! xxx**


	16. Chapter 16

**I am sooo tired and sooo busy, but I couldn't help but write for this. I worry about letting y'all down, so I hope the quality isn't lacking because of that.**

**Anyway, GRRM gets credit for all characters and ASOIAF. I don't write for profit!**

* * *

Disorientation overtook Sansa when she finally came to consciousness. Groggily, she pushed herself up off of the damp ground and tried to figure out where she was. Stone walls surrounded her, and water trickled down their rough faces. Bright yellow sunlight streamed over her face, and she moved toward it, realizing that she was in some sort of cave or grotto.

Once outside, she saw various men milling around. Some were eating, others were sparring, but most stared at her as she cautiously moved among them. No one approached her, so she assumed that her unlimited mobility meant that her presence with them wasn't imprisonment. Though no one was hindering her, no one was helping her, either. Trying to stay calm, she tried to locate Sandor. She hadn't been without him in weeks, and it made her uneasy to be apart from him now.

Though her senses had slowly returned to her, she still felt incomplete without the big man at her side. She hadn't been harmed or caged, but she wasn't sure if the same was true of Sandor. A large tent was erected nearby, and the men seemed to radiate from and orient themselves around it, so she altered her path toward it. No one moved to stop her as she approached its entrance, so she pushed through the tent flap to find a tall figure hunched over a large map.

Sansa already knew who it was, but it still shocked her when it turned around. Dread seized her, and her lightheaded fear returned.

It was clear that this woman had died, for no living person could be so pale, so cold, so shriveled. And yet, it was standing before her, and apparently talking to her. The rasping sounds its mouth seemed to be emitting were incomprehensible to her. All she could discern were her name and a few other disconnected words, but the bulk of what it was saying was lost on her. Mystified, Sansa stared at the woman's hand, clasped firmly over the gash on her neck.

_That must be the only way it can speak,_ Sansa thought to herself.

With a shock, Sansa realized that she didn't even consider the woman before her to be a living person, a real human.

_But that man had said that this was her mother_.

Sansa studied the structure of the face across from her critically, looking for her mother somewhere in the ruined features. Heart stuttering, Sansa felt a faintly bubbling sickness in the pit of her stomach. This couldn't be her mother. If this was her mother, then she couldn't even begin to imagine what had happened to Robb.

The woman was growing impatient, and Sansa realized that she was expected to answer the garbled and hissing questions the woman had put to her. She was glaring at her in expectation, and Sansa balked, unsure of what she'd been asked.

Rescuing her, the man who had spoken to her in the clearing earlier walked into the tent, gazing at her with an ageless sadness and a smile that only served to augment his sorrow.

"Lady Sansa, good to see you awake. I see you have met Lady Stoneheart."

"Who?" Sansa hardly managed to croak out.

She was overpowered by the woman's renewed hisses and gasps. The man listened to her with furrowed brow, nodding slightly and darting looks of uneasiness over to her. Then, without second glance to Sansa, Lady Stoneheart—as the man had called her—swept from the tent, leaving a chilling silence in her wake.

"Lady Stoneheart?" She whispered, noting the way his posture slumped guiltily at the mention of the name.

"You said she was my mother," Sansa continued suspiciously, more strength coming to her voice.

The thought of being told such a cruel lie angered her, and her confusion and bewilderment only served to increase her vexation. She was scared and she was alone. She wanted Sandor.

"In a sense, she is. Beric gave his life to bring her back."

"Bring her back from where? Who is Beric? Who are you?"

"I'm Thoros. It's very lovely to meet you."

He offered a kind smile, but Sansa only returned it with hard eyes. After an awkward cough, he continued in an increasingly toneless voice.

"Beric was the leader of The Brotherhood Without Banners, the group you're now travelling with. We have allegiance to no house. We are castoffs and disillusioned defectors. Our only stake in the war is taking care of the innocents who are hurt in this war of endless kings. Since Beric died, we ride under Lady Stoneheart now. Though, lately, it seems as though we ride for House Stark."

The same bitterness from before crept into his voice, and Sansa suspected that this man wasn't especially fond of Lady Stoneheart.

"I don't understand." Sansa hadn't meant to say it out loud, but it had been all she had been able to assemble from her scrambled thoughts.

Thoros' eyes crinkled in pity.

"I think you do, my lady. You just don't want to admit it to yourself. Don't want to imagine it."

Where there was only a suggestion of bitterness before, it was now laden in his voice.

"How did it happen?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Your brother and mother went to The Twins so that your uncle could marry one of the Frey girls. Your brother was supposed to marry her, as was arranged by your mother, but he broke the oath and decided to marry another. Walder Frey promised peace if Edmure would marry one of his girls, so they went as a sign of good faith. But Frey betrayed the guest right, and in a massacre he planned, he killed all of your brother's men, your mother, and, your brother."

He rattled of this information with a detached air that faltered as he reached the end. Mind reeling, Sansa stumbled back, spots forming in front her eyes.

_Robb was dead. Her mother was dead. No, her mother was alive. Robb was still dead. The North was lost._

Worryingly, Thoros hurried forward and helped her into a chair. By now, she thought she would have run out of tears to shed, but they flowed readily enough. Her body trembled, and her breath rattled out unevenly, feeling as though it was ripping her lungs apart with the effort.

Grabbing hold of the rough, wooden arms of the chair, she began digging her palms into the uncut ends, letting the splinters burrow under the tender skin. Blood began running down her fingers as it ripped her skin apart. So great was the pain within her, her torn and bloody hands didn't even register with her.

Thoros grabbed her hands, trying to stop the destructive movement.

"Don't touch me!"

Snatching them away, she cradled them to her chest, and she glared at the man. She had no right to resent him for the news he bore, but she was so tired of feeling helpless that it felt good to lash out. Rocking back and forth, she tried to get a hold of herself. She was sinking, drowning in her misery, and there seemed to be no reprieve. Sandor was her stability; he was the only solid thing in her life. _She needed him_.

"Where is Sandor?"

Crinkling his brow in confusion, Thoros stared at her as though he feared that she was still unwell after collapsing earlier.

"You mean The Hound?"

"Yes. And please don't call him that." She was trying for firmness, but the sniffling gave her away.

"He's, ah, outside."

From the way he said it, Sansa knew that something was wrong.

"Where is he? Did you hurt him?" There was still desperation in her voice, but now, it had more determination.

"No. In fact, after you collapsed, he didn't even struggle. As long as we helped you, he said he wouldn't even fight us."

_Didn't even struggle_. _Wouldn't even fight_. As the words sunk in, a whole new terror gripped her.

"Did you kill him?"

If Thoros thought she was unwell before, the near hysterical note in her question surely reassured him of it now.

"No, of course not, my lady. Though, Lady Stoneheart certainly advocated it."

"Please. Please, take me to him."

Silently, Thoros led her out of the back of the tent to wear Sandor sat in a giant cage. His back was to them, hunched in defiance and anger.

"Oh, Gods, what did they do?"

She flew past Thoros, throwing herself at the cage. Her hands landed on the bars, and her knuckles grew white with the tightness of her grip. Another layer of tears coated her face.

At the sound of her words, Sandor whipped around, running his eyes across her body, making sure she was alright. His thick, rough hand came through the bars to rest on her cheek. Savoring its warmth, she brought her much smaller hand up to caress his.

With a frown, he pulled it away to study her palm, bringing the other one up to join it. They were still bloody and ripped apart, she realized.

"Did they hurt you?" He growled in so fierce a voice that she was glad his ire wasn't directed at her.

"No. I—I guess I did it to myself."

"Why?"

She couldn't look in his eyes and say it, so instead, she focused on the crease above his nose where his eyebrows drew together in consternation.

"Robb and my mother are dead, too."

His warm hands were on her face again. There was a clanking noise, and she realized that it was because Sandor had thrust himself against the bars, trying to reach her, trying to hold her. She quietly sobbed against the metal as his thumbs gently rubbed the tears away. Neither was content with the barrier between them, but they were both relieved to be together again.

As she quieted, Sandor cleared his throat.

"So, the woman who put me in here isn't your mother, then?"

"No, well, yes, she is. Sort of. I don't know. Sandor, it's all so horrible and confusing."

He listened patiently as she repeated everything that Thoros had told her. Grateful for the security of his touch, she drew strength from him and turned her head so that her lips could press against his palms and his fingers.

"Little Bird," he rasped as her feather-light kisses fell across his coarse skin. Blue eyes, wracked with pain, wrenched up to his grey ones. These eyes used to instill such a terror in her, and she had thought that they were the worst and most horrifying of his features. Now, all she could think was that there was nothing more in the world that she wanted than to have those eyes looking at her the way they were now.

Their lips came ever-closer and she longed to feel contact with him, inexplicably believing that there could be no greater comfort.

Thoros coughed pointedly, and Sandor looked ready to murder him. Sansa flushed. She hadn't realized that the man had been there the whole time. He was giving the two of them a queer look, and self-consciously, Sansa stepped away from Sandor and began fussing with her hair and skirts.

"Lady Sansa, your mother asked me to talk to you and tell you what happened and then to bring you to her. She has some questions for you."

"What kind of questions?"

"Well, in light of certain, circumstances, we weren't aware of, this might prove awkward. She wants to talk to you about your kidnapping by The Hound. He's to be put on trial. She aims to put him to death."

* * *

Robb groaned and shuddered, chasing ghosts and reaching for shadows. Pain permeated even his dreams, but it drew into sharper focus as his eyes flicked open. His muscles had seized up during sleep, and he forced his aching body to shift into a sitting position. Clutching his head in his hands, he tried to fight off the throbbing and searing pain that raced through him.

The last thing he remembered was collapsing at the foot of Jeyne's bed. Stiffly, he walked from his room in search of her. Now that he had come so close to her, he couldn't fight the feeling that she was slipping through his fingers.

Leaning heavily against the wall for support, he struggled down the hallway, trying to find his way back to her room.

"You're going the wrong way."

Gawen lumbered over to him, grabbing him beneath the arm and helping him in the opposite direction. With uncertainty, Robb watched the older man from the corner of his eyes. There was no knowing what Jeyne's father thought of all of this, and he wasn't sure if he could depend on help from him.

Robb marveled at how much had changed. He didn't feel like a king, especially as they walked through the dusty and dilapidated hall.

Pushing open a heavy-looking door, Gawen and Robb looked in on the fragile creature curled up and dozing lightly on the bed. The noise of the creaking door woke her, and she opened her eyes and smiled faintly at him. Shaking off her father's grip, Robb came to her and knelt by her head.

"I thought I dreamed you," she whispered wondrously.

Unable to reply, he gripped her hand and laid a shaking kick on each one of her knuckles. Giving them time to talk alone, Gawen bowed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Some time later, Robb managed his way down the stairs into the once-great dining room. It, like the rest of the house, had gone to shambles after the family's money had dwindled, but it still maintained vestiges of its greatness. Much like Robb himself, all of the promise had faded away, leaving only faint memories and fleeting impressions of vitality and grandeur.

Joining him at the ancient carved table, Robb shot him a look full of questions.

"What happened here?"

"Why don't you tell me first?"

Quickly, not wanting to linger on them, Robb told Gawen of the events of the Red Wedding and his escape and his subsequent quest to find his wife.

"It is an amazing thing that you were able to keep going for so long. When you finally got here, you were out for a few days. I can't imagine what your body went through."

"I had to get to her."

Gawen nodded, unsure of how to tell his new son that he didn't know how much longer he was going to have Jeyne. As though reading his thoughts, Robb narrowed his eyes before speaking again.

"She is unwell. Where is the maester?"

"Jaime Lannister killed him. Killed my wife, too, surprisingly enough. She was, after all, working with Tywin Lannister this whole time. Ser Jaime told me when he brought Jeyne from Riverrun that Sybel knew the whole time. She even helped plan it."

Robb absorbed all of this information indifferently. He no longer had it in him to linger over past injuries. The only preoccupation he had was with the well-being of his wife and child.

"The baby shouldn't come for some weeks still. Is she going to be able to have it without the maester?"

Gawen shrugged.

"I suppose we will see."

The men sat together in silence, one studying the grains of the table, the other studying the planes of his hands. Robb almost allowed himself to sink into tranquility when the serving girl, white as a sheet, walked into the room, staring at them in horror. She wrung her hands and shifted from one foot to another. Incredulously, the men stared at her until she had collected herself enough to speak.

"Something is wrong. I think the baby is coming."

With surprising rapidity, Robb launched himself up the stairs and back to his wife's room. She was pale and pressed flat against the bed. Eyes bulging, she reached a trembling hand out to him. Crossing the distance quickly, he took her in his arms.

"Robb. It's too soon."

Trying to subdue his panic for her sake, he kissed her delicately on the side of the head and rubbed her back in soothing circles. She whimpered in pain, and he gnawed his lip in frustration. There was no fixing this. He couldn't take away her pain, and the knowledge of that killed him.

"Robb!"

"I'm here, love. I'm here. It's going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine."

The lie didn't come easily, and he wasn't sure who believed it less. He could tell the pain was unendurable, but she was too weak to cry out. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, and her pallid face was covered in a dull sheen. Her breathing was coming in short, labored spurts. When she wasn't laying prone on the bed, stretched out in agony, she would seize forward with spasms of pain.

Gawen hovered in the doorway, apprehension pulling at his features. Robb looked at him with similar expression. Neither one knew how to help her. The serving girl fluttered around, flustered and panicky. She was too young to know what to do. Jeyne was utterly alone with the pain. The best Robb could do was hold her.

For hours, Jeyne endured the torture. Every whimper and cry cut Robb a little deeper. She buried her head into his chest. They were both exhausted and drenched in sweat. Gawen had long ago retreated, unable to watch his daughter suffer as she was.

"It's coming," she whispered through cracked, white lips.

And, finally, the baby did come. Thrust into the light of day, the little creature began to wail. Robb sobbed in earnest, moved beyond words at the sight of his child. But something was wrong. The newborn was small, much too small. And there was blood, far too much blood.

"No," he whispered. He was going to lose Jeyne, and possibly the baby, too.

But she was only smiling serenely at him, capturing his cheek with her thin hand.

"It's alright. I've known this was going to happen for quite some time. I only held on for the baby, and you."

"Then, please, hold on for me a little longer. I cannot lose you, Jeyne."

He didn't know that there could be so much blood in one person, and yet, still more poured forth, soaking the sheets and the mattress beneath. Her hand slipped away, and he cried and begged and bargained and pleaded, but still, she was fading.

The girl wrapped up the child and gave it to Robb before leaving him to say his goodbyes.

"Robb…"

His name was the last word on her lips before she became too weak to say anymore. And so, in one arm, Robb cradled his newborn daughter, and in the other, he watched his wife die.

* * *

**So, in a largely predictable turn, Sandor faces death! And Robb is just about done puttering around in a post-massacre stupor. He's about to become really active, but what the heck is he going to do with a baby?**

**Guess we'll see... xxx**


	17. Chapter 17

_**I have a six page paper due tomorrow over a book I haven't read yet. What am I going to do? IDK IDK...write fanfiction!**_

**^^my thought process, which is why I wrote another chapter so quickly and why it's so short. I'm off to actually write my paper now! Probably...Maybe...Hopefully...**

**GRRM gets all credit for all characters and ASOIAF! I don't write for profit, just for pleasure, and occasionally, to avoid schoolwork.**

* * *

"You cannot kill him!"

Lady Stoneheart rasped something unintelligible, and Sansa turned to look at Thoros.

"She says that he kidnapped you—"

"No! He didn't! He saved me from the Lannisters."

More rasping.

"He's a Lannister pawn. He probably took you away on their orders," Thoros translated.

"Please, please, you have to understand. He has only ever been good to me. He's the only one on my side. He is sworn to protect me! You can't take him away from me. I can't do this without him!"

She threw herself at Lady Stoneheart's feet, sobbing pathetically. There was no strength left in her. There was only desperation and pleading for Sandor's life. Losing him was unimaginable, as was carrying on without him.

"You are weak, just like your sister." Thoros said it with as much disassociation as possible, not wanting to sound like he was espousing the sentiments spat from the mouth of Lady Stoneheart.

"Arya?" Hope ignited within her.

Thoros bowed his head, so Sansa gazed up imploringly at the fierce woman at whose feet she knelt. _There had to be some maternal impulse left within her_. Lady Stoneheart drifted away in disgust, fed up and embittered.

"Is Arya still alive?" Sansa demanded.

"Last time I saw her, yes." The man spoke hesitantly, and Sansa sensed more guilt on his end.

"What did you do to her?"

"After we learned of the Red Wedding and Beric brought your mother back, she wanted Arya to help her in her plans for revenge. But Arya resisted her. There was a boy with her, a blacksmith, she loved, and he was the only one who could check her violent tendencies. Your mother saw him as holding Arya back, so she had him sent away. She told Arya that he was killed in a raid."

"How cruel!"

Sansa's heart broke for her little sister. Strange as it was to hear that her sister had fallen in love, she knew that Arya was passionate and that her attachment to people ran deep. Losing this boy must have caused her unimaginable pain. With a start, Sansa realized that it must have felt much the same way as she imagined it would be to lose Sandor. Shaking away thoughts of what that could mean about her feelings for her sworn shield, she glared at the man.

"So where is Arya now?"

"We don't know. She ran away."

Gone. Again, her sister had been unfairly taken from her. It appeared to Sansa that the Gods never wanted her to reunite with her family. With a pang, she felt the sting of the harsh reality of her life. Gone were the days of blissful ignorance and happy trust in the world around her. She now lived in a world where anyone could die and anyone could lose themselves in darkness.

With a heavy sigh, Sansa pulled herself off of the ground and appealed to Thoros, her only remaining hope.

"I know you only wanted to help my family, and I know that you're losing faith in Lady Stoneheart. I have no family left. He is all I have. Help me, please. Let him go."

Thoros didn't answer her, and despondency and bereavement consumed her. At a loss, she stumbled away. Men were forever seeming to fail her, and the only one that hadn't was probably going to die.

* * *

Asleep at last, his baby girl was positively the most perfect and amazing thing he'd ever seen in his life. Lightly, he brought a finger to trace across her soft, plump cheek. As he cradled her in his arms, he marveled at how tiny and delicate she was. Born too early, she was weak, and Robb worried for her endlessly. She never left his arms, not even at night. He had given up sleeping, choosing instead to keep constant vigil over his daughter.

"What will you name her?" Gawen rumbled from across the room, watching the young king as he hunched over the child.

Robb hesitated.

"I don't know. I thought of naming her after my mother, and I thought of naming her after Jeyne, but when I look at her, I don't want to remember the ghosts of the people she's named for. I don't want her to inherit that legacy of pain and suffering and death. I intend for her to grow up outside of the shadow of war, and I don't want her name to tether her to these times."

Gawen nodded. The boy had far more wisdom than he'd suspected, and he appreciated his intentions to do right by the little girl. She would need a strong father in the times to come. Looking at his tired and bent form, Gawen wondered if Robb could be that man for her. He was tired, yes, but he was also defeated. He was a completely broken man, and losing his wife had seemed to push him even further over that edge.

"I can't stay here," Robb continued. "I know you have been pardoned by the throne, and I am grateful that you've offered me refuge, but I can't live amongst these memories."

"I will give you all of the supplies you need for your journey. Where will you go?"

"I don't know for sure, but I will seek out the Dragon Queen. I have it on very good authority that she is sailing for Westeros. I think she is our last chance for ending this war and finally achieving peace. I intend to help her in any way I can."

"Very well. I wish you luck."

Robb nodded his thanks and gathered his things. With a heavy heart, he packed up a horse for Robb and brought it around to him.

"Are you sure you can't stay longer? The child is hardly fit to travel."

"She is strong. We will make it."

"As you say, Your Grace."

Robb's mouth twisted into a humorless smile at the title as Gawen continued speaking.

"It will be known that Jeyne Westerling and her child died today, bringing an end to the Stark line."

At Gawen's words, Robb was greeted with a rather sad realization:

"The girl that delivered my daughter has to die. I know she probably won't talk, but I can't risk it. I have to protect my family."

Gawen's hand flew up.

"I will do it. I don't want her blood on your hands."

"Thank you. For everything."

"May the Gods protect you."

"I think they forsook me long ago."

Bringing his horse around, Robb galloped away, holding the baby close to his chest. When he was far enough away, he turned to survey the desolation he was leaving behind. Wide, turquoise eyes stared up at him.

"Maelin Stark," he whispered softly, "that is your past." The wind picked up and whipped the fabric of his cloak and the wisps of his hair. "I'm glad you'll never know it." He spoke louder now, fighting to be heard over the gusts of air. "I'll build you a better future." His words were lost in the wind, and soon, so was he, leaving behind only a cloud of dust.

* * *

**Robb's so emo...I guess I would be, too, if I'd lost everybody I ever loved...**

**So I guess it's AdventureTime! for Robb and Dany if he ever finds her. I have an eventual plan for this story, but in the immediate sense, I have no idea who I'm going to write about next. Right now, I'm trying to decide between popping in on an old friend or catching up with someone new. **

**Alright, done thinking out loud! Until next time! xxx**


	18. Chapter 18

**GRRM gets credit for characters and ASOIAF.**

**I don't write for profit!**

* * *

"You are wasting your time here."

With his eyes trained on the blue-haired boy, he addressed his protector, a fearsome man with a forbidding look.

"What do you know of it, imp?"

"I know that the Golden Cloaks grow restless, and I know that the Queen you wait for is still in Slaver's Bay. I know that there is no better time for Aegon Targaryen to fulfill his birthright."

Suspicion colored the large man's hardened features, and Tyrion noted how grey and red hair sprouted at the roots of his hair where the blue had grown out. Tyrion nodded, assured by Connington's reaction that he had guessed their identities correctly. Aegon had listened quietly to their exchange, a true feat for the outspoken prince. He was now staring at the ground critically, his eyes racing back and forth. Tyrion could sense the restless passion just below the surface of his cool exterior, and he felt an eerie prickle up the back of his neck. The boy was dangerous.

"Is this true? My aunt has yet to leave Slaver's Bay?"

"My Prince we have no proof—"

"Her absence here is proof enough!" His words burst out loudly and echoed around the near-empty port. It was unnervingly quiet in the early dawn hours, adding another layer of suspense to the already disconcerting aura of the scene.

Rumors of Targaryen madness were widely known, and Tyrion couldn't help but wonder if the boy didn't have a touch of it. _He had certainly inherited some of his grandfather's paranoia_, Tyrion decided. _Though_, he reflected, _he had been born amid secrets and lies, betrayals and coups, and to grow up with all of that would certainly lend itself to distrust_.

"Prince Aegon, I must urge patience. Your aunt will surely arrive, and then we will move for Westeros."

"It was your idea to wait for her. Of course you advocate waiting longer still. Do you not think I can do this without her?" His voice grew deceptively calmer and quieter, belying the anger festering beneath and glittering dangerously in his eyes. "What do we need her for? Nothing! What claim does she have to the throne? None! _I _am the son of the Dragon Prince! _I_ am the blood of the dragon! _I_ am the prince who was promised!" Chest heaving, Aegon advance toward Jon Connington, veins bulging, eyes popping.

For his part, the man stood firm before the boy's quiet and creeping fury. For he was still a boy, full of caprice and arrogance. Tyrion rolled his eyes. He'd had his fill of entitled princes and delusions of power. And yet, he had to admit there was a difference between the young prince and his nephew. Aegon had an inherent nobility, a natural power that Joffrey had so tried and failed to grasp. But he was also rash and inconstant. Men would listen to him, sure, but Tyrion wasn't sure if men would follow him. And if they were going to win this war, men would need to run to the ends of the earth for him and throw their lives in the way of danger to preserve his.

With a heavy sigh, his thoughts turned to Westeros. They were fast running out of options. The Starks were dead, the Tyrells were not to be trusted, the Martells had suspect intentions, the Baratheons were all but extinct, and his own family was crumbling. Unfortunate as it was, the Iron Throne had an empty seat to fill, and Tyrion felt that he was looking at its last resort.

Pacing in agitation, Aegon furrowed his brow. Connington stayed quiet, and grimly so. Tyrion had heard stories of him: how he had loved his silver prince; how he had fought valiantly to serve the royal family; how he had drunk himself to death after Robert's Rebellion. And yet, here he was, bearing yet another burden for House Targaryen. He marveled that the man could be so loyal. The Battle of the Bells no doubt still haunted him, and Tyrion surmised that the haggard, aging man felt that custody of this boy was his reparation to the house of fire and blood.

Indigo eyes shot over to survey him.

"Well, it seems we fished you out of the river with good cause."

Tyrion tried not to allow the memory to rile him. Aegon stalked in front of him, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He was clearly enjoying calling the shots. Tyrion tried to hold his anger in check as the boy prince continued in his musings.

"You prove to have valuable information. If circumstances are as you say, then the time is right for us to leave."

Connington bowed his head in submission though he was clearly conflicted. Cursing to himself, Tyrion bowed as well, already regretting his words before he even spoke them. It seemed all too cruel that he'd have to return to Westeros so soon.

"My Prince, I would like to offer you my services. I am well-versed in the intrigues of court, and I know Westeros well. I would be of unparalleled use to you."

Beautiful, thin lips, graceful, noble features, deep blue—almost black—eyes, all directed themselves to him. Pale blond eyebrows pulled together.

"Very well, half-man, you may come, but take care that you only tell me whole truths."

* * *

The dragons were growing stronger. Powerfully, they soared through the air as they circled above the ship. They cast impressive shadows overhead, and when they flew closer, Daenerys felt the force of the gusts caused by their wings.

Visenya wandered beneath them, thoughtfully gazing up at the great beasts. Her gait was slightly uneven as she toddled on her pudgy and unsteady legs. Daenerys resisted the urge to go to her daughter and help her. Though it pained her, she knew it was for the best that Visenya learn to stand on her own from as early an age as possible.

Drogon swooped close to the little girl, but she didn't flinch away or alter her bearing at all. Instead, her hand reached up to brush his brilliant black head, and it spiraled around her, sweeping her up in its frenzied motion. For a moment, Daenerys caught a glimpse of the dragon queen she was going to become. The image filled her with hope and provided her with a renewed sense of purpose.

The dragon took to the air again, shooting straight up into the sky. Visenya's dark hair fell like a curtain over her back and she tilted her head at a sharp angle to watch his progress. Her violet eyes looked almost black in the twilight as her gaze lowered again and settled on her mother.

As the two of them stared at each other, the years between them seemed to melt away, and all that was left was a pure understanding. There was a determined gleam in the girl's serious eyes a stubborn set in her jaw, and Daenerys knew that her own solemn expression mirrored her daughter's.

Looking behind her, she watched her fleet's slow progress through the fathomless waters. Grim and resolute, her army carried on, willing to brave the unknown and follow her to the edges of the world.

Soon, she would have her revenge on those who had betrayed her family. She would take the throne back from the usurper. She would destroy anyone who would stand in her way.

She would rain fire and blood upon them all.

* * *

**Everyone's charging for that one throne. It's like the deadliest game of musical chairs ever! War of Endless Kings, indeed.**

**Thanks for reading! xxx**


	19. Chapter 19

**I hope you like your Wednesday nights with a little...SanSan action! Because that's all I got. Why is this super long? Who knows. I was on a roll, and when the inspiration train hits me, I just ride it til I run out of track!**

**GRRM gets credit for characters and ASOIAF. I don't write for profit. I feel like a broken record at this point, and it probably doesn't need to be repeated, but I don't wanna be sued!**

* * *

Sansa was sick with worry. Thrashing around in her sheets, she felt too hot, too constricted, too powerless. The men had erected a tent for her, but it offered her no sense of comfort and no sense of security. The only person who could offer her those things was locked away and set to die in a few hours' time. Thoros had told her that Sandor was to stand trial for his purported crimes in the morning, and she knew it would go ill for him. Even if he was given trial by duel, there was nothing to stop The Brotherhood from executing him even if he did win. Especially with the dead woman commanding them.

Sansa shivered. She couldn't bring herself to think of Lady Stoneheart as her mother. There was no tenderness, no affection. All day, she had avoided Sansa, clearly livid with her for protecting the burned man. A tear slid down Sansa's cheek. Sandor was the only one who had truly helped her. Though he was a brutish man with a reputation for drunkenness and violence, he had never harmed her, manipulated her, or otherwise mistreated her. There had been no access to wine on their journey, and the withdrawal had made him surly, but he still managed to keep most of the harm out his words and all of it out of his actions.

With a bitter sigh, she stared at the cloth ceiling of the tent. Nothing felt right without Sandor by her side, and she couldn't sleep without his reassuring warmth beside her. Tears were falling fast and thick now, and her heart seared painfully. Unable to take it any longer, she stumbled from her bed and across the floor. Pulling back the flap of her tent, she peeked out nervously . The guards that had been stationed outside were conspicuously absent, but she noted it only sparingly.

She came tripping toward him, a mess of tears and snot, looking less like a lady than even Arya ever had. A half-hysterical thought crossed her mind as she imagined her sister's face if she could see her in such a state of disgrace, and Sansa sputtered out a slightly feverish laugh.

Sandor's eyes shot open at the strange noise, and he watched as her tall form materialized before him, coming closer in the night, still beautiful to him even after all this time. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was dreaming. Whenever he seemed to be lingering near death, he always wanted her more than anything else—more than wine, more than the desire to fight back, more than the urge to kill.

"Sansa," his voice came out in a hoarse whisper, shamefully plaintive. He didn't care. She had seen him at his most pathetic, crying amid the flames at Blackwater. She knew him better than did anyone else. He had done horrible things in his life, and yet, she still brought her hand to caress the burned side of his face. She could accept even the most despicable parts of him.

He didn't deserve her kindness. As her sworn shield, he had pledged to protect her, but all he had done was drag her through more terrible shit. It seemed that he would forever fail her. Her tears were illuminated in the moonlight, shining on her cheeks. They broke him somewhere deep inside, and he cursed that she could make him feel so weak and helpless.

Upon seeing him, sobs wracked her body, increasing in intensity as she realized that this could be the last time she would ever be able to speak to him. It was beyond endurance. Crumpling into him, she ignored the hard iron bars that blocked their access to one another. Rough hands held her up and rubbed her shoulders.

"Stop crying, girl," he growled. Behind the rough edges of his words, she could hear a clear note of pain, and in his grim, grey eyes, she could see something like mourning reflecting in the moonlight. To know that he saw the end, too, awoke an abject fear within her. They couldn't both give up. Wildly, she searched for words that would reassure him.

"I'm going to negotiate your release. I'll get you out of here, I promise! I'm sure Lady Stoneheart will listen to me. She has to."

"Hush. Stop with your useless chirping. Men have been trying to kill me for most of my life, and I've always known that someone would succeed eventually."

"Sandor, no—"

"At least the last thing I did was noble, in its own fucked up way," he said, ignoring her anguished protests. "I got you back to your mother. Maybe those gods you love so much will take pity on my soul when I'm dead."

She flinched at his corrosive and contemptuous tone, and cried harder at the terrible meaning of his words.

"That is not my mother. That is anger and hatred distilled into a living corpse."

Her words came out bitterly, and Sandor started at the firmness and fury in her normally sweet voice.

"Sansa," her head snapped up at the tenderness in his words. "Don't you want to stay with her?"

"No! I want to be with you!"

She all but shouted it, and he motioned for her to be quiet. Awed, he studied the stubborn lines in her beautiful face. It was beyond belief that such a perfect creature would choose an ugly dog like him. But there were her hands, running over his face, assuring him of the truth of her words.

"I don't think that's going to be an option for much longer, little bird."

Turning his head away, he tried to ignore the stricken look on her face. It was already impossible to think he was going to have to leave her, but guilt curdled in his gut as he realized that his death would mean abandoning her to people who would use her in their designs for power and revenge.

"Sandor, you have to fight. Please, for me. Do what you must, but please, just get us out of here."

"Listen to me. I will do all that I can for you, but you have to promise me that you'll fight, too. You are stronger than you think. You are not so helpless as you believe; there is iron in you. I've seen it."

Following his speech, her tears were brought to a haggard, hiccupping end. Incredulously, she wondered if what he said was true. All her life, she had been told that she had to be the perfect lady, thought that she needed a knight to save her. In the Red Keep, she had been kept powerless and afraid, and Joffrey had made sure that she knew how feeble and insignificant she was.

But she had learned how to play his game. Somehow, she had survived her captivity, lived on as others died around her. She had even begun to fight back. There were moments where she knew she was capable of doing horrible things. She had even been ready to kill Joffrey. Maybe Sandor was right. She possessed greater strength than she'd thought. After all, she had witnessed the loss of most of her family, and she was still standing. She had seen her father's head chopped off, and she had learned to carry on. But she wasn't sure how much longer that strength would last. Sandor's death would be a blow she was sure she wouldn't be able to withstand.

"Sandor, what are we going to do?" Her whisper was frail and uncertain, and Sandor could see that her resolve was crumbling with her hopes.

As much as he wanted to reassure her, he couldn't bring himself to frame the words. Never one to lie to her before, he certainly wasn't going to start now. Instead, he pulled her closer. As his thumb traced over her lips, he wondered if he dared take that which he had been denying himself since he'd met the girl. Her words tonight suggested that her feelings ran deeper than just fondness or dependence, though he wasn't sure if she wanted him in a physical way.

Their lips were a breath apart now, and she wasn't fighting him. His fingertips brushed lightly over her skin as her blue eyes bore into his. But he hesitated too long, and she pulled away with a wrinkled brow.

"Why won't you kiss me?"

She was blushing furiously, but the night obscured most of it, and she didn't care, anyway. The direness of their situation and her weeks of confusion and jumbled feelings made her brash and blunt. He gave no response, and she couldn't discern his face in the shadows.

"Was I that bad the first time?" With the possibility of that being the truth, her voice was timid, and she instantly regretted bringing it up.

"What in Seven Hells are you talking about? I never kissed you!"

"Yes you did! The night of Stannis' attack, when you took me from the Red Keep, you kissed me!" Even as she said the words, she could hear the uncertainty coloring her tone. The memory was fuzzy in her mind, but she had been so sure. She had dreamed of it so many nights. It had to be true.

"No, I didn't. I have never kissed you."

There was a hardness in his voice, but it was not without a touch of longing, she noted. Or at least, she thought she did. She wasn't sure of anything now. Closing her eyes, she summoned that horrible night: the sounds of death, the all-consuming fear, the green light, Sandor's lips on hers.

"Sandor. You kissed me. I remember—"

Her words were suddenly cut off as he lunged forward, discarding all inhibitions and coming to a rash, need-filled decision. He brought his lips hungrily to hers, unleashing all the desire that he had kept pent up since meeting her. She kissed him eagerly back, threading her hands through his hair. They pulled each other closer, their grips sure to leave bruises. The bars held them apart, but for once, Sandor was grateful for them, unsure that he would be able to restrain himself without them.

Sansa's heart was racing erratically and felt as though it was going to burst out of her chest. Sandor's tongue traced across her bottom lip, making her knees buckle and her body arch into his. Her stomach swooped as she felt his hands slip lower down her back. Moaning slightly, she opened her mouth, savoring the feeling of his mouth on hers. Lust built within her, a sensation that was not unfamiliar to her, but it was overpowering now. It seemed as though she would never be satisfied. She wanted him so desperately that it scared her.

Gently, he brought the kiss to an end, gripping her shoulders and pushing her back with soft firmness.

"Oh."

Chest heaving, she brought her fingers to her tingling lips. She felt lightheaded as her stomach fluttered and a flush crept up her neck.

"I think I would have remembered that," she whispered huskily.

Sandor snorted in amusement, and she abashedly looked away, suddenly embarrassed. Her thoughts went in a thousand different directions and were racing faster than she could process them. Her eyes darted around, and she came to a sudden realization.

"Shouldn't there be men here guarding you?"

"There should, but I sent them away."

A shriek escaped Sansa's mouth, and even Sandor jerked in surprise. Grey and blue eyes shot over to stare at the grey-haired man. With palms raised, Thoros advanced toward them. Sandor stood menacingly behind Sansa, anger roiling and coming off of him in waves. Even Sansa exuded forbiddance, and he took care to speak in appeasing tones and language.

"I'm here to help you, my lady. I have come to set him free."

"Why help now?"

Cautiously, she watched him, shrinking slightly into Sandor's bulk. His large hand came to rest protectively on her shoulder, and Thoros stopped in his tracks. He searched his patched and faded robes before finally producing a key. Holding it out to her, he tried to convey his benign purpose, but she still watched him distrustfully.

With a sigh, he set the key in the dirt and walked back a few paces. Warily, she scampered forward and snatched it up, retreating back to Sandor's defensive embrace.

"I have your horse prepared, Clegane, and I would have prepared one for you as well, Lady Sansa, but we can't really spare one. I have given you many supplies that should see you through a long journey, though."

Her heart went out to him. He looked positively desolate.

"I thought restoring your mother to life would heal some of the Starks' wounds, but I see now that it only deepened them. Please consider this my apology. You are both free."

Hurriedly, Sansa released Sandor and flung herself into his arms. He gripped her tightly, buying his face in her hair. Thoros watched them, still perplexed at their connection. They broke apart somewhat awkwardly, and turned to him. Soundlessly, he led them to the horse. As he glanced over his shoulder, he saw her reach over and take The Hound's hand, holding it in a tight grasp.

Stranger whinnied upon recognizing his master, and Sandor leapt forward, capturing his mouth in his hands and bringing the black destrier to silence.

Lady Catelyn had been beautiful once, he knew, and he suspected that her daughter had inherited her looks and then some, for the girl who stared at him was a vision even in her dirty and travel-weary state. She smiled slightly at him, inexplicable sadness and gratitude in her clear blue eyes. She gave him a slight curtsy, still remembering her manners even after all this time.

"Thank you, Ser Thoros."

"May you find your peace, Sansa Stark," was his only response.

He watched in silence as the big man bent down and whispered something in her ear. Nodding at his words, she reached up and placed her hands on his shoulders. He lifted her easily onto the horse before swinging himself up behind her.

They looked strangely impressive as they stared down at him, and as he watched the black horse become consumed in the dark folds of night, he had the oddest premonition that the Starks might find justice after all.

* * *

They rode hard through the night, and Sansa knew that Sandor was trying to get her as far away from Lady Stoneheart as possible. Distantly, she wondered how many more times they would have to flee in the night before this horrible war was over. She fell asleep in his arms, finally able to relax now that he was restored to her.

She dreamed of his kisses and embraces, and when she awoke to the sun streaming on her face, it was with self-consciousness and awkwardness. She was suddenly aware of how strong and warm his arms were, and of how tightly they were wrapped around her. Stranger had slowed to an easy gait, and she guessed that Sandor felt they were far enough away, or maybe he was just tired.

Glancing up at him, she found his grey eyes already studying her with interest. Her cheeks reddened, and she straightened herself so that she wasn't leaning as heavily on him. They rode without speaking for the next few hours, their newfound feelings harder to admit in the bright light of the afternoon.

Dusk fell quickly, but still, they rode on. Just as her stomach began to rumble, they drew to an abrupt halt. Looking up, Sansa saw that they had arrived at The Crossroads Inn, and it was with relief and slight trepidation that she greeted the sight. It would be nice to finally get a bath and a hot meal, but spending the night alone with him made her feel giddy and nervous. They had slept next to one another plenty of times before, but this time, there was a bed involved, and Sansa knew they would be sharing a room because Sandor would never let her out of his sight, even for propriety's sake.

He jumped down from the horse and turned to her. Wrapping his powerful hands around her tiny waist, he helped her to the ground. Once she was settled, he didn't let her go right away. Instead, he ran his fingers through her hair before bringing them to stroke her cheek. Her breathing became a bit labored, but she noticed that his wasn't exactly even, either.

Abruptly, he turned away from her, busying his hands with tending to Stranger. From the bag Thoros had packed for them, he produced a dark cloak that he wrapped around her.

"Try to keep your face hidden. You are too beautiful to pass unnoticed," he rasped as he pulled up his own hood.

She glowed at the compliment, pleased by it even though she knew that he had always thought she was attractive. Sandor led the horse to the stables as she waited anxiously for his return. He wasn't gone longer than he had to be, and they both visibly relaxed when they were together again.

They pushed through the front door of the inn with her clinging to his arm. There weren't many people around, and she was grateful for that. There was just a clump of men eating quietly in the corner. They were turned away, and she couldn't see any of their faces. She tried to hide herself in the folds of his cloak as he addressed the innkeeper and asked for a room.

She noticed that Sandor's eyes kept shooting over to the men, and it made her paranoid as she followed suit. The men continued talking to each other quietly, paying the two of them no mind. The innkeeper moved away for a minute, but neither one of them was paying attention to her anymore. They were too busy focusing on three obscured figures in the corner.

She couldn't shake the feeling that they were talking about them, somehow, and her suspicions were confirmed when one of them turned slightly to look at them. Upon seeing his face, Sandor swore loudly and grabbed her arm, flinging her behind him. One hand reflexively went to his sword while the other slowly started pushing her to the door. The innkeeper returned at this exact moment, a confused glare on her brow.

On the other side of the room, the men were slowly rising and advancing toward them.

"Gregor's men," he growled before shoving her to the door. Pulling out his sword, he charged at them just as they too pulled out their own weapons and ran in his direction. Paralyzed by shock and fear for him, Sansa stayed glued to the floor, unable to run as Sandor obviously wanted her to do.

Polliver reached him first, and Sandor felled him easily, running him straight through with his sword. The Tickler was stumbling a bit at a much slower rate; he had been drinking and he wasn't as adroit as his unfortunate companion. Clearly a squire, the youngest boy of the group hesitated further, cowed by Sandor's height and brute strength.

Aiming a few blows to parry the other man, Sandor looked over his shoulder at Sansa. She was staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. He had just opened his mouth to tell her to get out when he felt the blade pierce his side. With an enraged roar, he turned back to his opponent, but he was having a hard time focusing on his face. Staggering with the pain, he gripped his sword tighter, swinging blindly as his vision began to blacken.

Somewhere from the dredges of his consciousness, he heard Sansa's scream. Nothing else could have brought him back. But she wasn't in danger; she was screaming for him. With renewed vigor, he fought off the man, ducking and blocking blows and swinging with great force of anger. Distantly, he could feel the warm, red blood spilling out, and the pain was so great, he felt as though his skin was being ripped open. This only increased his bloodlust, and he could taste the kill coming.

With a final swing, he brought the man down. He stabbed him several times over—just for good measure—until he was sure that The Tickler lay dead at his feet. Quivering behind the two dead bodies of his companions, the young squire looked at Sandor with unparalleled terror. Sansa pleaded with him to let the boy live, but he couldn't leave witnesses. With cold detachment, he swiped his blade across the boy's neck, bringing him a quick and painless death.

Turning his back on the scene, he looked around for the innkeeper, but she had fled in terror after the fight had started. Gripping his side, he realized that there was no time to look for her. _Who knew how many more of Gregor's men were around._

He hesitated when he reached her, still waiting for the moment when she would decide that she really did hate him for his cruel and monstrous ways. But she didn't look at him resentfully nor did she turn him away. She merely took his hand and guided him from the inn.

Trying to conceal just how badly he was injured, he got Stranger and lifted her to sit upon him. He gritted his teeth to keep from cursing and crying out from the pain it caused him. As he sat himself behind her, he almost blacked out from the horrible agony; it felt as though the cut had torn even further apart.

She clung to Stranger as they rode at a breakneck rate away from the inn. They were going too fast for her to turn and speak to Sandor as she wanted to. The sword had gone in deep, and she was afraid that Sandor was in more danger and pain than he was letting on.

Stranger's course veered dangerously a few times, and she knew that Sandor was slipping in and out of consciousness. Before she could do anything, she felt Sandor slipping out from behind her and tumbling to the ground. Stranger reared dangerously, and she was in danger of being thrown off herself. With fumbling hands, she grabbed the reins and pulled hard on them. The destrier stopped bucking, but he paced frantically above his master, refusing to stop. Bracing herself, she jumped down from the horse, tumbling to the ground.

There were a few sore spots that were sure to turn into ugly bruises, but other than that, she wasn't seriously injured. The same couldn't be said for Sandor, however. He was sprawled on the ground at an unnatural angle, and she scrambled over to him. With difficulty, she roused him and helped lean him against a nearby tree. His face was ashen and his eyes glazed and half-closed.

Panic ruled her thoughts, and she was having trouble processing the situation in a coherent manner. Her hands fluttered uselessly over him, and she wanted to cry for the fear and wretchedness of it all. It was so cruel that she should get him back only to lose him again. Her vision blurred, and she fell to her knees beside him, crying senselessly.

He croaked her name, and she took a deep steadying breath. His life was in her hands, and there was no one else around to help. It fell to her to save him, or he was going to die. The thought made her tremble, but she pushed the doubts aside. She needed to be strong for his sake. Pulling herself up, she turned to the wild black horse that was trotting and snorting violently. He reared perilously as she approached, and her resolve faltered.

Terrified as she was of Stranger, one look at Sandor's crumpled form steeled her nerves. Grabbing the horse's reins, she forced it to stop its frenetic pacing and brought his head to her eye level. He fought her, but she held fast, looking him hard in the eye, begging him to understand that she needed him to cooperate for Sandor's sake. For the man they both loved.

Grabbing the bag that was attached to his saddle, she hurried back to Sandor, heart fluttering in her throat. She tended to his wounds and dressed them as best as she could, but she was no healer, and she only had very rudimentary knowledge of how to tend to injuries. There was nothing to do but wait and pray that he got better and that infection wouldn't take him.

* * *

Time passed in a fuzzy void for him, and he wasn't sure for how long he had been asleep. When he woke up, her beautiful face was above him, staring at him with those eyes that haunted the dreams that he buried deep in his memories and savored. He tried to reach up to touch her face, but his hand was too heavy and she suddenly seemed very far away. Her concerned mouth formed words, but he couldn't hear them. She was just a lovely blur, floating just out of reach. He almost smiled.

…

"Sansa," he gurgled, and she was at his side. Soft, white hands stroked his face, and he relished the coolness of her touch. He knew now that he was dying, but the fact didn't upset him. There were worse ways to go. He was numb to everything but her flesh, and he closed his eyes, letting her satiny touch brush against his own leathery skin. _There was no sweeter thing_, he decided, and he imagined that she was rubbing away all of his rough edges, leaving him shiny and perfect and new.

…

The next time he awoke was not so nice. Every nerve ending seemed to be screaming, and he couldn't tell where one part of his body ended and the other began. He was lost in a haze of agony and anguish. The suffering taunted him, hinting at death, but never quite bringing it about. It brought forth other horrible memories, memories he tried to suppress. The pain crippled him, paralyzed him, and as he lay catatonic, he reached for images of her.

…

He dreamed only of her, but it didn't bring him peace. She was never whole in his dreams. There were always parts of her missing, parts of her marred. Half of her face was bone, and her mouth was an ugly gash. She shouted at him, sad, angry things full of bitterness and hurt and loss and mourning, but he couldn't put together what she meant. She limped toward him, her body a lumpy, misshapen mess. He tried to embrace her, but she came apart in his arms.

…

This time, she was whole, and real. Wonderingly, he pulled a hand to her face, the action taxing him greatly. Her eyes were red rimmed with black shadows underneath. He didn't know how long she'd been tending to him, but he hated that she had spent any energy on him at all. He was forever costing her something. He couldn't even have the decency to die quickly and end her suffering. He was glad that the last thing he'd see was her. She seemed to shine, every plane of her face perfect and graceful and lovely. If he had known this was going to be his end, he would have taken her long ago. One last memory to carry with him to the grave. At the thought, trouble pulled at his mind. No. He couldn't have taken her. She wouldn't have wanted it, and forcing her would have been the ugliest memory he could make. He was not Gregor. He was not like his fucking brother. But he loved her. He could admit that to himself now. Hard truths come easy to dying men. He wanted to tell her, but she was slipping away again, fading to blackness. The last thing he remembered was a flash of red and a beautiful voice, singing his name.

* * *

**Fun fact about me: I love spoilers. I can't actually enjoy something unless I know how it's going to end. I read the last page of books, wait a day to watch TV shows so I can read episode summaries on the internet, and read plot synopses of movies before I see them. I seem to be in the minority with this weird compulsion, (I refuse to believe I'm completely alone!) but with that knowledge, I won't divulge any spoilers here. **

**Meh meh meh. I don't like cliffhangers, and I wanted to resolve this one in this chapter, but nothing ended it as nicely as does the paragraph above, so I had to keep it like this. **

**See you soon! Thanks for reading! xxx**


	20. Chapter 20

**This chapter feels weird to me. Idk. The vibes are strange. I'm neurotic. Whatever.**

**I've been writing a lot of this in class, and let me tell you, I've been getting some weird looks from the people who sit around me and creep on my "notes." One kid correctly guessed that I was writing "Game of Thrones fanfiction" (this is actually ASOIAF fanfiction, but close enough!) and there was judgement abound.**

**Whateva! I'm sort of shameless when it comes to this!**

**GRRM gets all credit for ASOIAF and all characters. I write for fun (and occasionally judgement from my peers) and not for profit!**

* * *

Shadowy figures moved in the half-darkness, whispering to each other and tending to him. A numb sort of pain radiated from his side, leaving his nerves tingling with vague discomfort. Trying to open his eyes, he discovered that his lids were far too heavy, and his movements far too sluggish. It was as though he was experiencing everything at a remove, and he realized that he had probably been given something to mask the pain.

Distantly, he heard the voices grow louder and firmer, and he strained to hear and understand what they were saying. With the utmost concentration, he tried to turn the unintelligible murmur of their voices into coherent words.

"My lady, I must insist that you go to your own cabin. I let you remain here last night due to extenuating circumstances, but now that we know he will live through this night, you really need to leave. We do not permit men and women to sleep under the same roof unless they are married."

"I would not be sleeping, though. I would be tending to him."

"You have been tending to him day and night for long enough. You can leave him for one night."

"No. I can't. He needs me. I have to help him; I have to make sure he's all right."

"You will be no good to him if you take ill, as well. You have not been sleeping; you have barely been eating. You are exhausted and look ready to fall over."

"I'm not tired."

Though she spoke firmly enough, Sandor could hear the brittleness in her voice and the low rumble of tiredness in it. He heard the man's heavy sigh, but he didn't argue further. After a few moments of disapproving silence, the floorboards creaked with his retreat, and he left the cabin, shutting the door behind him. Soft, cool hands ran over his hot face.

Her shadow loomed above him, and the ends of her hair tickled his face as she leaned over him. As he became more aware, he squinted at her, trying to bring her into focus. He needed to see her face to prove that he really was alive and that she really did care about him.

The ends of her hair shone in the soft glow of candlelight, the deep red of it augmented by the flames. The shadows on her face grew longer in the dim light, and the ones under her eyes seemed to deepen and blacken in the dancing of the flames. She looked half-dead, and for what? For him? He didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve her. And yet, he still reached for her, still needed her more than he ever needed anybody before.

"Sansa."

His voice was hoarse and broken from lack of use, and she was quick to lean down so as to hear him better.

"You should sleep."

"No," she whispered. "I won't leave you."

"Then sleep here."

She hesitated for only a minute. He felt the bed sink slightly with her weight as her tall and slender former stretched out beside his. Though she was cold, she wouldn't get under the sheets with him. Instead, she nestled closer to him, tucking her head against his chest and her body beneath his arm.

Their breathing slowed, and both were on the edges of sleep when she shifted next to him, bringing herself up to look at him. She pressed a light kiss against his lips, and it was so insubstantial, he half wondered if he'd dreamed it. It was his last conscious thought before sleep dragged him under.

Some time, later, he returned to check on the man they called The Hound. Pushing open the door to the cabin, Elder Brother paused for a minute, letting his eyes adjust to the scene in the tiny room.

There on the bed, the big man lay sleeping, his bulk almost too large for the frame and mattress. A terror to behold, he was horrifically scarred, and Elder Brother guessed that the disfigurement ran far deeper than his skin. Tucked against him, the beautiful girl dreamt beside him, looking more at peace than he'd seen since he met her. Her auburn hair was sprawled across his chest and her hand was on his cheek, fingers splayed against the mottled flesh.

Disapprovingly, he noted how her legs were tangled over his and how his arm draped around her, holding her close. _At least she had decency enough to not lay under the covers with him_, he thought with some exasperation.

Their disparate appearances—his so ugly and mangled, and hers so lovely and pure—suggested that they were wrong for each other in every way, and yet, they looked so happy together, so perfectly fit together. Fate was a funny thing. It set people on paths that were a maze of directions and destinations, and somehow, it had seen fit to cross these two people.

He was almost loath to wake her, but he did so anyway, directing her out of the bed and into her own cabin. She was so tired that she didn't fight him this time. She merely stumbled away, exhausted almost beyond human endurance. Morning would bring clarity and a whole bevy of questions.

Both of his guests slept until way past noon the following day, but Elder Brother let them, knowing that they must have faced unimaginable hardships to get to this point. Sansa was the first awaken, and without any thought for herself, she hurried back to Sandor's side, checking his fever and stroking back his damp hair. The fever had broken at some point during the night, as evidenced by his sweat-soaked clothes and the covers he'd thrown off in his sleep.

Thanking the gods, she truly relaxed now, knowing that he really was going to be okay. An hour or so later, he roused himself under her watchful stare, carefully pushing up to a sitting position. His clear grey gaze settled on her, and she was practically quivering with anxiety. Instantly, she was fluttering above him, asking him question after question about how he felt, what hurt, did he want to eat anything, he should probably drink some water. And on and on and on. It was making him dizzy, so he brought a large hand to her waist to calm her down.

"Stop your chirping! I'm fine!"

She looked far too happy for having just had him snap at her, and he shifted uncomfortably as her face lit up with a wide smile in his direction.

"What are you so happy about?"

"I'm just so glad to hear your voice again and to see you back to your old grumpy self!"

To his immense surprise, she folded herself gracefully into his lap and threw her arms around his neck. The action was impulsive, and she didn't think anything of it until she froze moments later, realizing the impropriety of it. Before she could pull away, he grabbed her face, tilting it so that she was looking up at him with wide, embarrassed eyes.

Neither one said anything, both afraid to shatter the moment. So much had passed between them on their journey, especially in the last couple of days, and neither one seemed to know how to broach the topic. Her heart was quivering nervously in her chest, and she cautiously scooted closer to him, bringing her face closer to his. Their noses brushed together, and her breath caught at the contact.

He let her move at her own pace and let her decide when to make the first move, not wanting to startle her with any sudden or aggressive movements. Uncertainly, she pressed a shy kiss to his lips, and he returned it slowly. It took every ounce of his concentration and self-control to not push her further than she was willing to go.

As the kiss grew deeper, she became bolder, pressing against him, bringing her hands to trace along his muscular body. He shivered as her touch traced over his chest, and he groaned, bringing her ministrations to a surprised halt. Cautiously, she pushed closer to him, leaning up against his body as she did. Her hand slipped ever so slightly, accidentally falling against his injured side. He grunted in pain, and she recoiled quickly.

Both of their chests were rising and falling with breaths that were deeper and faster than normal. Still kneeling between his legs, she regarded him thoughtfully. Her fingers carefully caressed the bandaged area that Elder Brother had tended to.

"Gregor's men did this to you?"

She knew the answer, but she asked all the same. He grunted in the affirmative.

"He is horrible. He is no true knight. I've known that ever since you told me what he did to you when you were children."

With a heavy sigh, Sandor ran a hand over his face before looking at her sadly.

"I was a drunken coward trying to scare a little girl because she had dreams that made me angry."

"You said you would kill me if I repeated what you told me."

"I didn't mean it," he grunted.

"I know," she said quietly, "but you meant it when you said you were going to kill your brother."

"Yes, I did."

"Sandor, you have killed so many men, and it hasn't brought you peace. Do you think that killing one more will give you what you want? A life motivated solely by revenge won't make you whole. It will only tear you apart in the long run. Look at what's become of my mother. She is proof of that. You have to find something else to live for."

_I did_, he realized. It was her. For months, she had been the reason why he carried on, the reason why he didn't lose himself in drink and drown out any good feelings. But he couldn't live happily knowing that somewhere out there, Gregor survived.

"Sansa, if you only knew what he did, you would understand why I have to kill him."

Patiently, she waited for him to continue. He wanted to rebuff her, turn her away, but she was looking at him with such an open, trusting expression. And all of a sudden, he wanted to tell her everything.

Without preamble and without breaking eye contact, he did. He told her of how he spent his childhood motherless and alone. How he'd been bullied and tormented by his older brother. How from a young age, he learned to expect and fear death. How he'd seen his father and his little sister killed at the hands of the little boy who would become The Mountain. How he'd learned to embrace death by learning to kill. How he'd watched Gregor grow his brutality and bloodlust to the point of sadism. How he'd been knighted as a reward. And how Sandor had come to hate the world for its lies and its hypocrisy.

She listened to it all with tears flooding her eyes. And now she understood. Sandor wasn't the ugly one; the world was, and he had just turned inward, away from it all. She cried for the man who so many had claimed lacked a heart. His heart had been broken at such a young age, and it just hadn't been reassembled correctly. There were no words to express to him how sorry she was for his loss—both tangible and intangible—so she cried for him instead.

Wondrously, Sandor wiped away her tears, keeping his hands on her face after they were gone. He couldn't quite believe that these tears were for him. If she could see his soul laid bare before her and still look at him like that, then she must really care for him. Almost as though reinforcing this sentiment, she embraced him tightly, burying her face in his neck.

"I am so sorry. For it all. I can't imagine what it would be like to have a brother like that." Right after she'd said it, a harsh realization hit her, a sharp intake of breath punctuating her pain.

"I don't have any brothers left."

She felt strangely winded as she thought about that. It was almost as though the floor had been ripped out from under her. Arya would probably never return to her, her parents were unreachable, and all of her brothers were dead. No. That wasn't entirely true. She technically had one brother left, but she had treated him so cruelly in her childhood that she doubted he would ever want to speak to her again.

* * *

Jon sighed, his breath coming out in hot puffs against the frigid air. Surveying the frozen wasteland before him, he tried to make his mind as empty as the barren landscape that stretched beyond The Wall. Memories kept poking through, little barbs that were sharp and painful to recall:

_The image of an imp, waddling at his side, watching him with his mismatched eyes. "You Starks are hard to kill."_

The words seemed so cruel now, taunting him as they echoed through his mind. He'd returned to The Wall with a heavy heart, only to be given news that broke it entirely. The Starks were far too easy to kill.

Another image swam to mind.

_An angry, red-haired girl, shouting at him, piercing his leg with an arrow. She hated him, and it broke his heart. Her face, so beautiful to him, was contorted in fury. It crumpled in agony as he ran away from her._

He angrily cut his sword against the ice, wishing things could have gone differently somehow. Ghost stood steadfastly at his side, and Jon placed a weighty, gloved hand on his head. If it hadn't been for the direwolf's interference with the wildlings, he likely would be dead right now.

Together, man and wolf looked out into the white expanse, anticipating the assault that they would be unable to stop. He had written for reinforcements, and he didn't know if they were going to come. Now, there was nothing to do but wait for deliverance or damnation.

* * *

**I pretty much never post on Friday/Saturday nights, but I didn't have plans tonight, so I thought I'd write a quick update.**

**Also, I'm very aware that in the books, Summer saved Jon and not Ghost, but this is not the books! At this point, Bran & co. haven't quite reached The Wall yet, so for the sake of this story, Ghost was with Jon for that moment.**

**Also, yay Jon! I've been waiting and WAITING to finally pull him in! **

**Thanks for reading, y'all! xxx**


	21. Chapter 21

**I have so many half-written chapters right now. I'm going to sort through them all and hopefully have another one up later tonight. It will probably be a Gendry/Arya or a Sandor/Sansa chapter or both.**

**GRRM gets credit for all characters and ASOIAF! I don't write for profit!**

* * *

The road North almost killed him. And if he was constantly on the edge, his daughter was perpetually on the brink of death. It had been foolish to leave The Crag in such a hurry. But he had been tired of sitting still. Tired of being purposeless. For too long during this war, he had been stagnant, looking for direction, lacking action. The only move he'd made was to walk straight into a trap that got his mother and men killed. And he had only been able to stand and watch as his wife died in his arms.

His feet now begged for movement, and as soon as they set off from The Crag, they set themselves on a never-ending path away. Always away. He was never walking _to _something. He felt as though he was forever running _away_ from something. His feet were on an endless cycle. They couldn't stop. He couldn't stop. Though he was now on this path, he still lacked direction. Since he had nowhere to go, he meandered from place to place, stopping only briefly at inns he would pass.

Gawen had given him some money and supplies, and he tried to use them as sparingly as possible. His baby needed mother's milk, he knew, but he could only give her poor substitutes, and it made her weak. Constantly, he watched her, terrified that he would lose her. There was no doubt that should she die, he would collapse and die with her. So he slept rarely, and he never let her out of his arms. He became so fixated on her that she became his only purpose.

And so intent was he on this purpose that he began to believe that should she ever leave the protective curve of his arms, she would die. In his mind, a cord grew between them, and he envisioned that from him, there was a channel of lifeblood that flowed to her.

She slept often and never cried, and she looked at him with eyes that chilled him to the bone. Their turquoise color was often clouded in grey, and she would only let out small whimpers as she experienced discomfort. He had no idea how to care for a child, no idea how to help her. He could only watch as she fought for life.

Since his hands could do nothing, his feet worked twice as hard. He walked as though his actions were in direct correlation with his daughter's life. Somewhere deep inside, he believed that as soon as he stopped moving, she would stop breathing. It wasn't rational, but he clung to it all the same. A vague notion to head North formed in his mind, and he pushed forward without any plans for ending his journey.

Long forgotten were his plans to find the dragon queen. He didn't care a thing for the war. It didn't matter a whit to him who won or lost the throne. There was no purpose outside of Maelin. She had become his world, his center of gravity, the only thing holding him together. And so he wandered.

He was a man lost.

When he reached the swamps of The Neck, his strength was almost completely worn through. His footsteps sunk into the marshlands, becoming stuck in the mud, threatening to suck him down. The air was thick and humid, and he struggled to breathe. When he finally reached considerably solid ground, he sank to his knees, cradling her slightly away from his chest.

Her eyes fluttered open, grey and serious, and he stared back, utterly engulfed in her gaze. That everything within him hinged on her was heavy knowledge. Her fragile form bore the weight of both of their lives. A tiny hand broke free from the folds of his cloak she was wrapped in to grasp one of his fingers.

At her touch, a sob broke from his lips. The contact was so light, so tenuous, and it was almost unbearable. Tears tumbled uncontrollably, sobs wracked his body. Grey Wind whined beside him and pawed at his arm. The wolf curled around his family protectively, but even he seemed to know that it wasn't enough. Robb suddenly knew what it was to lose all hope.

Fog pressed in oppressively around him, a steamy haze that cast everything in surreal, ephemeral mist. Brown and green lingered and mashed together, painting the dismal scene. Everything was mired in mud and stagnation. Endless, his journey seemed endless.

He didn't know how long he sat there—if it was only for minutes, it might as well have been for days. He didn't know what he was waiting for. He didn't know if he would ever escape the abjection. If he hadn't lost faith in them, he would have prayed to the gods.

Perhaps, the gods still smiled upon him. Perhaps, they felt he had suffered enough. Perhaps, they guided his footsteps to this very spot. Or perhaps, it was merely coincidence that brought him there at exactly the right time.

Whatever one it was, he didn't particularly care. For at that exact moment, the mist seemed to clear almost mystically to reveal a building bobbing in the boggy water. It looked so absurd, he thought he dreamed it. For after all, manors don't just float down the swamps upon nothing at all. And then, he realized what he had inadvertently stumbled upon.

He had grown up hearing stories of Greywater Watch, the mysterious stronghold of House Reed. It had always seemed a glorious abstraction: an independent household on an island of its own. Armies had sought it to no avail, and yet, here it was before him. It was his salvation in a way, and just like salvation, it was only found when it wasn't sought.

He staggered to his feet, fighting through the thick water to reach it. For the second time since escaping The Twins, he traipsed to a relative stranger's door to throw himself at the mercy of the man who answered.

Howland Reed had never seen a sadder, dirtier, more defeated figure than the crumpled mess of a man brought before him. It was already a wondrous thing that someone should find Greywater Watch, but the strangeness of the occurrence was compounded by the remarkable appearance of his unexpected guest.

A direwolf paced back and forth in front of his master, causing Howland to marvel at what it could mean. Caked under layers of dirt, he could just barely make out red hair and blue eyes, and it made him wonder. _Could it be…?_ But that was impossible. He had heard what had become of the King in the North. The man swayed unstably before him. As his anguished eyes rose to meet his, Howland realized that he was barely more than a boy, lost in the marshes. He was clutching a dark bundle to his chest, and with a jolt, Howland saw it moving of its own accord.

Before he could even ask, the boy drew it away from his chest to check on it. Pulling back the fabric, he revealed the child, and Howland almost fell over from the shock of it. His mind was absolutely reeling with amazement. Hoarse, half-formed questions burst from his lips. The boy watched him struggle for words, understanding what he was trying to ask.

"I am Robb Stark."

Silence screamed in his ears and he sunk to his knees before his king.

* * *

There was very little of Ned Stark that he could find in his eldest son. The boy certainly favored the Tullys, he decided. Scrubbed clean now, his features were a perfect image of his mother, and Howland could see how the boy could have been handsome had it not been for his haggard and emaciated appearance. Deep blue eyes studied him resentfully from across the table. Those eyes spoke of horrors witnessed and barely survived.

"Where is my daughter?"

The girl had been pried from his unwilling grasp hours earlier so that they both could be cleaned and fed. As his baby had been ripped from his arms, he had flown into a fury that Howland had been awed by. It had taken several of his servants to wrestle him away and wash him. The boy seemed almost murderous in his pursuit to get his daughter back.

"She is being looked after by one of my serving girls. The girl hasn't had a child in a while, but in time, her body will remember how to provide for a baby if she takes it to her breast."

Robb looked ready to protest, but Howland held up an authoritative hand, and Robb balked and grudgingly fell silent.

"It is a miracle that she survived this long without it. You can't do this all by yourself, Your Grace."

He tacked on the title hastily, and he noted how the boy's eyes darkened in anger at hearing it. To keep him calm and distracted, Howland tried to change the subject to questions of his own.

"Did my children ever find you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I sent my son and my daughter to swear the allegiance of House Reed to your cause."

"No. They never came."

Howland nodded pensively as Robb's eyes narrowed slightly at his unruffled reaction to the news.

"Do you not worry about your children?"

"They are strong, capable children, and I am sure they will take care of each other. Besides, one must let go of one's children at some point," he said pointedly. Robb chose not to respond, so Howland continued on in a slightly cheerier tone of voice.

"I've always thought that no news is good news."

"That is foolish. You are in a perpetual state of no news. No raven can find you."

The hardships he'd endured had clearly robbed the boy of a sense of humor, Howland decided. The thought made him sad, and he wondered how much more this war had stolen from so young a person.

"Ravens may not reach me, but occasional reports do. I've heard of all that has happened to you. But I didn't know that you survived."

"No one knows except for Gawen Westerling and his serving girl, the latter of which is dead on my command, and the former of which I should have killed for good measure."

He tried to hide his disgust as he digested that information.

"And what of the girl's mother?"

"Died," he grunted. "In childbirth." His eyes shot up as though trying to determine if the old man assumed he killed her, too.

There was a distinct, haunted, hunted sort of look in Robb Stark's eyes, and it unsettled him to see it lurking there, corroding the goodness. Men weren't born like this; they were beat down and remolded to be this way. The serving girl entered the room, cradling the sleeping baby in her arms. Robb snatched it jealously away, a black look upon his face.

"Thank you, Jeyne," Howland said quietly, noting how the fallen king seemed to flinch upon hearing her name. Regret seized him instantly for speaking her name. It was his dead wife's name, too. His glare escorted the terrified girl out of the room, and the old man leaned back to study his best friend's son sadly.

"You have wandered very far, Robb Stark."

Robb nodded.

"It is a long trek here from The Crag."

The stooped old man shook his head calmly, though Robb could see a spark of frustration in his eyes.

"I didn't mean in distance."

The next minutes were spent with Robb glaring in annoyance into the face of the old crannogman's benign blinking. Bitterly, Robb looked down at his daughter, slumbering peacefully in his arms.

"Think of all that you have seen, all that you have done, boy. Consider the decisions you've made and the choices you have yet to make. You've journeyed far, yes, but I think you lost yourself somewhere along the way."

"You don't know me. How can you say I am lost?"

"Because I knew your father. And I know her would have raised you with honor and morals. He would not have raised this bitter and cruel boy before me."

"War changes people."

"It didn't change your father. He ended Robert's Rebellion with his honor intact."

"And look what all that honor did for him. It got his head chopped off and his family butchered. When I gathered the North for war, I did it for him, so I could avenge him and honor his memory by bringing Westeros to peace. I should have realized that was a lost cause, just like my father was."

"Let me tell you about your father, boy!"

Howland's voice was more terrifying than he had ever heard it before. It powerfully projected over the table and across the room with enough force behind it to cow smaller men. But Robb Stark only stared defiantly back. Behind those hard eyes, though, Howland could see a hint of a crack. He wanted to be proven wrong. And Howland realized the burden that he had just been handed: he had to give this boy a reason to hope. He had to help him find redemption.

So he began. The first stories he told were innocent. Stories of Ned's goodness, his steadfastness. Robb didn't so much as blink at these. He could see the image of his father, but he didn't believe in it anymore. The man Howland spoke of was a mere ghost to him, and he couldn't remember anything about his father except that he had died.

So he continued. He told Robb of Ned's actions during the war. Standing up to tyranny. Fighting with honor. Losing all of his family. Carrying on with honor. And finally, Robb wept. He and his father had faced not so different circumstances, but they had emerged from them very different men.

And still, even after he had finally broken through, Howland continued talking long into the night. He told stories that made Robb angry, stories that made Robb laugh, and stories that made Robb cry. Finally, he told a story that caused the boy to still in astonishment, disbelief painted across his face.

It was at the conclusion of this story that the old man stood and placed a heavy hand on Robb's shoulder. As he turned to go, he heard the boy speak in a faint, dejected voice.

"I have failed him."

"On the contrary. You have weathered more than he ever could have imagined."

"But at what cost? I am as you say. I am truly lost."

"Neither one of us believes that."

"So what am I supposed to do, then?"

"Start looking."

* * *

**So one of the reviews I read said that Robb is all about his daughter now. (It actually said "dude is all about his daughter now" and I lol'd.) And I gotta say, that is pretty accurate!**

**I've also noticed a bit of a pattern. All of the Starks are pretty much at their lowest point now. They can only go up from here!**

**Thanks for reading, y'all. See you later xxx**


	22. Chapter 22

**I'm so proud! I totally got this up like I said I would (albeit later because I fell asleep for a while).**

**GRRM gets all credit for all characters and ASOIAF. I don't write for profit!**

* * *

Gendry had never known despair as acutely as he felt it now. He had grown up amid poverty and filth. He had seen starvation and destitution. He had known a mother's touch only fleetingly, and he had never known a father's guidance at all. But still, he had never given in to depression. Without her, it came flooding in and dragged him down.

His dreams were consumed with her, saturated with images of her wide, grey eyes, full of blame and abandonment. And she was forever out of reach. He thought that his visions of her would fade after a while, but every night, there she was, clear as life. It was cruel that he could access her only artificially, and his body throbbed in agony at her absence. His life quickly seemed to lose meaning.

Since arriving here, he'd asked no questions about his own fate. He cared nothing about himself. He cared only for Arya, and it destroyed him to think that he had left her alone with Lady Stoneheart. Only a thread of most tenuous nature had bound her to her humanity, and he feared that it had been ruptured when he had been torn away from her. The gods only knew what reasons Lady Stoneheart had given her for his disappearance, but he doubted that they were the truth, and he doubted that Arya would ever forgive him.

His first few days were spend begging to know what had become of her. He'd said that he would do anything if he could only tell her that he hadn't left her by choice. The Red Woman would visit him in his cell, and it was his only human contact. He didn't beg for his own life; he only begged for her sake. But Melisandre had only smiled enigmatically at him. She was a beguiling, maddening force in his life, and she provided no answers; she merely locked him away and left him in the dungeon of Dragonstone to drown in his questions.

For too many nights, he had been left completely alone in an unbearable limbo between alive and dead. Sitting in the dank, half-dark, he became accustomed to the fact that he very well might die. There was no fight left in him, and he took this revelation somewhat calmly. The only thing he regretted was that he had to die without seeing her face one last time. All of his prayers were for her, and he whispered pleas in the flickering torchlight that she wouldn't lose herself to her inner demons.

Just when he began to wonder if they'd forgotten about him, Melisandre emerged on the stone landing of the stairs leading up to the other parts of the castle. The ceilings were low, and she was tall, necessitating that she stoop down slightly so as to not bump her head. He could only see her outline in the dim light, but even so, he could tell that she was beautiful. Her full figure had ample curves and a bountiful bosom, cut lustily and generously. She was what any many would dream of, but even as he stared at her, he found that he didn't want her at all. Instead, his mind wandered to a completely different body, skinny and straight and belonging to the resistant girl he loved.

Dropping his eyes to the ground, he heard the distinct click of metal and the rusty whining of a door being swung open, and he knew that he had been freed. Standing uncertainly, he advanced to the woman who only smiled frustratingly and mysteriously at him. Her powerful hand wrapped around his upper arm and dragged him forward, leading him up to meet his fate.

Time passed unmarked in the dungeon, and it wasn't until he was blinking in the pale grey light filtering through the windows that he realized that it was day time. A storm raged outside adding to the bleak outlook Gendry had assumed since arriving here.

After leading him through a maze of halls and hallways, Melisandre deposited him in a great, high-ceilinged room containing only a large table with a map upon it and a balding man at the far end of the room. He stood with his back to them and his hands clasped together. The slope of his shoulders suggested that he bore the weight of a lot of responsibilities and even more disappointments. Upon hearing their echoing footsteps, he whipped around to watch their progression to the middle of the room. He joined them halfway there, and surveyed him with dark, serious eyes.

Without saying a word, he circled Gendry, seemingly taking in every characteristic to his appearance. Minutes ticked by in silence, and he noted the spark of apprehension and disbelief in the older man's eyes.

"He looks just like him."

"That's exactly what I said," the Red Woman said smugly in her deep, sultry voice.

_Who?_ Gendry wanted to shout at them. He was dying to known whose visage he mirrored and why it made him such a source of interest to the two. Lady Stoneheart had seemed to know the value of the commodity that were his looks, and she had traded him away for quite a bit of gold and the added bonus of getting him out of her daughter's life.

"Why did you bring him here?"

"You know why," she said somewhat reprovingly. "There needs to be a blood sacrifice, and his blood "is—"

"No," he said flatly, suddenly averting his gaze. All of a sudden, he seemed unable to look at Gendry. Resistance seemed to be something the Red Woman was unused to, but she continued to look unruffled and unconcerned as she stared at the rigid man before her.

"You wanted to be king, and for that to happen, sacrifices must be made."

At her words, Gendry suddenly realized who the man was. He was staring into the face of Stannis Baratheon. He looked old and weary despite being Robert's younger brother, and he was staring at Gendry with more than a touch of regret.

"But he is just a boy."

Gendry knew that the topic they were calmly discussing was the subject of his death, but the casual way in which they talked about it gave him a false sense of calm; he couldn't quite believe that they would kill him.

"And without his blood, you would be just a man."

"How do we even know that it would work?"

Without warning, Gendry felt himself flying backward and becoming pinned against the opposite wall. He struggled to move, but he found that he had been immobilized. She advanced toward him, her necklace glowing in an eerie red and reflecting in her terrifying eyes. His voice got lost somewhere in the terror, and he couldn't form the words to beg to be released. A scream was finally ripped from him as she dragged the sharp point of a knife across his forearm.

It pulled slowly across his flesh, parting his skin to reveal the angry red beneath. Blood ran down his arm and fell from his fingers, flowing and pooling luridly. In a quick flash of glass, she caught some of the drops in a vile and moved away from him. Finally, he regained control over his body as her magic released him and he crumpled to the floor. Clasping his injured arm to his chest, he glared at the two figures who were now ignoring him to lean over the fire that she had conjured into a stone basin several feet away.

Her mouth was forming words he couldn't hear, but he did see how they had a strangely mesmeric effect on Stannis. They were staring at each other through the blaze, both of them completely absorbed with the orange and red flames as they danced and licked the air. When the fire reached its apex, the red priestess dropped his blood into it.

It hissed, emitting a black smoke. Stannis leaned closer still, a look of awe pulling his features into taut surprise. Whatever he saw seemed to renew his vigor and his trust in the woman because when he looked again at Gendry, it was without doubt or remorse. He waved his hand in dismissal, and Gendry was again dragged into the bowels of Dragonstone to await his dismal fate.

Later that night, Gendry gingerly bound his arm with a scrap of fabric from his tunic. The worst of the bleeding had finally come to an end, but the cut was still weeping somewhat as he wrapped it. With a start, he realized that he was shaking, and he tried to calm himself. The worst was yet to come, and he doubted that he would receive a merciful death. Stannis and his red priestess had a penchant for fire that made him think that that would be his ultimate faith.

He felt sick just thinking about it. He would have spilled every last drop of blood and gutted himself for Arya without hesitation or a second thought. He tried to tell himself that this was no different, but he couldn't quite believe it. If he couldn't live without her, he suddenly realized that he certainly couldn't die without her, either.

"Hello," a sweet, little voice broke through his thoughts and surprised him, making him jump.

Scrambling up from the floor, he squinted at the tiny silhouette that appeared at the metal bars. With a start, he realized that he was staring at a young girl with short, dark hair and a shy smile. As he drew nearer, he saw the mottled flesh that consumed half of her face and crept down her neck. Taking in the scaly texture of it, he realized what it was—Greyscale.

She wavered uncertainly before him, and he noted that she seemed embarrassed now that he was looking at her. Remembering himself, he stumbled to find his words.

"Hello," he returned, a bit late.

"I'm Shireen," she said in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

"Hello, Shireen. It's nice to meet you. I'm Gendry."

She didn't reply to that, and he realized that she had lost the nerve to say anything more. He wondered how long it had taken her to work up the courage to speak to him at all.

"What are you doing down here?" he prompted.

She shrugged and shrank back into the shadows.

"My father doesn't like me to explore, but ever since my cousin left, I've been so lonely." Her voice fell softly in the darkness, too quiet to echo the way even his booming whisper did.

"Where did your cousin go?"

"Ser Davos said he had to go to the Free Cities. But that made my father very angry because he said he needed Edric's help to awaken the Stone Dragon. Is that why you're here now? To help awaken the dragon?"

"I guess so," Gendry replied hollowly. Despite his sad circumstances, he found himself feeling sorry for the girl. She was Stannis' daughter, he realized, and though she was a princess, she had none of the charms that came with the title. He wondered what sort of childhood she'd had to make her think that imprisoning people was normal and sacrificing family members was called "helping."

Melisandre had been very particular about his blood, and he speculated what that meant if he was taking the place of the girl's cousin. He wondered what their blood in common. The sound of footsteps came from above, and she was quick to dart away but not without promising to return.

* * *

Gendry didn't know how long he was held captive. His long stay behind bars was punctuated only by visits from Melisandre and Shireen. There was no doubt at all that he vastly preferred the company of the latter to that of the former, for whenever Melisandre would come, it would be only to add to the cuts on his arm to draw more blood. He wondered why they didn't just kill him and get it over with already, but he suspected he owed his stay of execution to Stannis' lingering doubts.

Whenever Shireen would visit, she would often note how impatient or angry her father always seemed to be, though he didn't know if that meant good things or bad things for him. For her part, Shireen was proving to be the only bright spot in his life. She would visit him often, becoming bolder and more talkative each time she appeared.

He fast learned that Stannis was extremely protective of her, and that, coupled with her disfigurement, made her prone to timidity and shyness, and she was used to passing much of her time alone. As a result, she read a lot, and when she would visit, she would pass along much of her knowledge to him. He listened to her stories of knights and dragons and legends night after night, drawing comfort from her sweet tones and kind demeanor. In her, he found a sort of companion, and he began to love her like a sister. She had grown equally fond of him, making her more attuned to his moods and more comfortable in asking about them.

He even trusted her to tell her the truth of Melisandre. The news didn't seem to surprise her, and Gendry realized that she was a smart child and that she had probably guessed at the truth of the woman long ago. Nothing could stop her from adoring her father, however, and though she acknowledged that he was too easily controlled by the priestess, Shireen insisted that he was an honorable man who would come to his senses and do right by his family soon enough.

She was right about so many things, and he desperately hoped that this was one of them.

* * *

One night, after she had finished recounting the history of the Targaryens, he felt her shrewd gaze on his face. After a moment's hesitation, she began speaking quickly, and Gendry realized that she had probably been waiting a long time to say these things to him.

"Sometimes, when I come down here to see you, you are sleeping. Whenever that happens, you always seem to be having the same dream. You yell out and look like you're crying." She was now addressing the floor, unable to look at him after bringing up something so personal.

Gendry nodded, knowing what she was referring to. He wasn't upset that she'd brought it up. In a way, it would be a relief to finally talk about it.

"I dream of a girl—a girl I love. Though, she probably hates me now."

"Why?"

"I promised that I would never leave her, and then I left."

"But that wasn't your choice! _Melisandre_ broke your promise. There was nothing you could do!"

"It doesn't matter," he said, shaking his head sadly. "I promised to lay the world at her feet and then ripped it all away."

"You will find her one day and give it all back," she said confidently, laying her hand upon his own.

He wanted to smile at her words, but his heart was too heavy. Melisandre had been in to see him, and as she took the blood from him, she had told him that it was for the last time. The next time she came, it would be to spill it all. He didn't want to share the heavy burden of this news with her, but he also wanted to say goodbye. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Gendry finally spoke.

"I told myself that I would love her until the day that I die. I think today is the day that I stop loving her."

Shireen's eyes pooled with tears as she understood his meaning.

"They won't kill you. My father wouldn't do that."

But Gendry knew better. He could only smile sadly at her. He didn't want to ruin her image of her father. He was well acquainted with what men were capable of when it came to the things they loved. The atrocities men were willing to commit often revealed how much they loved something. And where Gendry was willing to kill or die to save Arya, he knew Stannis would cut him down easily if it gave him a throne.

Shireen believed differently, promising that her father was honorable. She left him with promises of freedom, and as he watched her go, he wished her a mental goodbye. Closing his eyes, he welcomed back the familiar dreams, treasuring these final memories of the grey eyed girl he loved.

* * *

Somewhere far away, a girl with no name dreamed of a boy with blue eyes as deep as the sea.

* * *

**This'll be the day that I dieeeeee. That's all I could keep thinking as I typed the end of this haha.**

**Anyways, I'm tired and have to get up again in four hours, so I'm going to go to sleep now.**

**Bye! xxx**


	23. Chapter 23

**I don't have a lot to say (for once!) so I'll just say the usual: GRRM gets all credit for ASOIAF and for the characters. I don't write for profit!**

* * *

The earth was hard-packed and difficult to overturn. He grunted with every pump of the shovel, relishing the difficulty of the digging. The work was backbreaking, and he poured himself into it, enjoying the soreness in his bones and the strain of his muscles. His body would ache at the end of the day, but he didn't stop, and he didn't complain.

It was a testament to Sandor's strength how quickly he'd recovered. Not one to sit still easily, he was on his feet as soon as he was able. Elder Brother was quick to recognize Sandor's need for action, so he put him to work digging graves. Sansa disapproved, worried that he would overexert himself and relapse. Not wanting to upset her, he tried to take it easy, but it drove him mad to be inactive. And so, every morning, he would drag himself out of bed and go to work.

It was not without awareness of the irony that he did so. For so many years of his life, he had brought men to death, and now, here he was, laying them to rest. He had been up since dawn, and it was well past midday at this point. With an exhausted sigh, he moved under the shade of a nearby tree. Wiping his brow, he rested against the sturdy trunk before slowly sliding to a sitting position. He brought his legs up to his sides so that he could rest his elbows on his knees.

Sansa should be along soon, and he realized that he was looking forward to seeing her. He had been waiting for her all morning, and he wondered where she was. She usually visited him often, checking on him and bringing him water. These visits were frequent, and he found himself looking forward to them. Today, she was running late, and he wondered where she was. There was something calming about her company, and it surprised him how much he craved her presence. Almost dying had changed him. It set certain things in absolutes and helped him see what he could and couldn't live without.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The heat of the sun had a soporific effect as did the hard labor of the day. He nodded off for a few minutes before jerking back awake. When he opened his eyes, he saw her graceful figure moving across the grass toward him. Her fluid gait moved supplely underneath her simple cotton shift, and her auburn hair glinted in the sunlight.

Her beautiful face split into a grin upon seeing him, and he returned it without thinking about it. His face twitched horribly, and his scars stretched grotesquely, but she didn't look away the way she once would have done.

He reached a massive hand out to her, and she took it lightly. Pulling her skirts up with her other hand, she daintily settled herself between his legs. Her hands rested delicately on his chest. Anxiously, she studied his face, and he tried not to look as weary as he felt. She worried about him constantly, and he hated that she did.

Their relationship had taken a confusing turn in their months together, and he wasn't quite sure where he stood with her. It was clear that she had grown attached, and he his feelings for her ran deeper than he ever cared to admit. It made his heart swell to see her softly smiling up at him.

"How are you today?"

"Good," she smiled. "Tired."

"You haven't been sleeping well," he traced the dark circles under her eyes, and she shook her head.

"It's hard without you. I miss you at night."

"I miss you, too, Little Bird. We shouldn't have to sleep in separate cabins…Elder Brother and his bloody rules."

"Sandor," she laughed, giving him a playful shove. "Elder Brother has helped us so much. He took us in, helped heal you, and agreed to keep our secret."

Sandor snapped to alertness at that.

"What secret? Does he know who we are?"

She nodded a little sheepishly. Before he could say anything, she was quick to interject.

"Sandor, these are holy men. Elder Brother won't betray us, and even if the other brothers know, they won't say anything. They can't talk."

"Do they still have tongues in their heads?" She nodded. "Then they can talk."

"Yes, but they _won't_. If you don't trust them, then please at least trust me. We're not in any danger here. This is the safest I've been since I left Winterfell."

Her words brought him little comfort, but he didn't want to argue with her, so he nodded and brought his hand to caress her cheek. She brought her arms around his neck and her forehead to rest against his. Staring into her blue eyes, he thought that he could drown in them forever.

She nestled her head in the crock of his neck, and he tried to ignore the way his breath caught at the contact.

"Elder Brother came to see me earlier today." His chest rumbled as he spoke, and the vibrations from it sent tingles down her spine.

"Oh?" she responded, a little breathier than she would've liked.

"He told me that I'm not the same man I used to be. He said I am better man now."

She pulled back to study his face again. There was a slight crease in her brow as she tried to figure out what he was thinking.

"You have always been a better man than people gave you credit for being."

Sandor grunted, a noise somewhere between amusement and disagreement.

"You don't agree?"

"No; it's not that. It's just…Elder Brother just made it sound like I was a better man because I'm not the violent man that I was before."

"And that bothers you?"

"I don't think it's true. I don't see anything wrong with killing. I would slaughter every man on this island if it meant I was protecting you."

He fell into troubled silence. There was something unsettling about the disparity between what Elder Brother saw in him and what Sandor knew to be true of himself. He didn't know how to explain it, but the roots of his concerns centered around the fear that he wasn't good enough for her.

"That doesn't make you a bad person," Sansa whispered, bringing her hand to his face. Somehow, she understood what bothered him. "All men are killers," she continued thoughtfully.

"The little bird repeats all that she hears," he said, not without a hint of teasing in his voice.

Her laughter tinkled in the air, the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.

"But it's true! Killing and violence will always be in men's natures. What defines you is not _that_ you kill, but _why_ you kill. Gregor kills for the joy of it—"

"But so do I."

"Not anymore, though." Her words were sweet and her touch sweeter as her fingers stroked his face. "You kill because you have to. You kill to protect me. I've seen enough of the evils of the world to know the difference. I'm not that foolish little girl anymore that thinks violence is disgusting. I see now that it is necessary sometimes. I understand how people can do terrible things for those they love."

A frown passed over his face.

"Sansa, I don't want you to do terrible things. It is a heavy thing, and you aren't built for violence. It is in your nature to be gentle and nurturing. _I_ will do the terrible things for you."

"And that is what makes you such a good man, Sandor Clegane."

Disbelief glittered in his eyes, and though she saw it, she kept smiling confidently at him. He snorted awkwardly before breaking eye contact with her. When they were in King's Landing, all he wanted was for her to look at him, but now, he found her direct gaze disconcerting.

"Silly little bird," he rumbled.

He felt her smile against his chest, and he ran his fingers through her long curls. She stared up at him through her lashes, and he cursed internally. She didn't even know how beautiful and tempting she was.

"Where have you been all day?"

"Oh. Nowhere." Now it was her turn to avoid his gaze. For some reason he couldn't even guess at, she was bright red and couldn't look in his eyes. "I just had some sewing to do."

Before he could ask her why she was acting so strangely, she pressed a quick kiss to his lips. Embarrassedly, she turned around. Wiggling in his arms, she shifted herself so that her back was resting against his firm chest. He grunted stiffly and ran rough hands up and down her arms. Pressing a kiss to the back of her head, he pulled her into a tight embrace.

* * *

They were in love. It wasn't hard to tell, and Elder Brother saw it written clearly on their faces and present in their actions. He saw the way she was constantly drawn to him, the way she oriented herself around him, and he saw the way the big man would let his guard down around her, the way the tension in his shoulders would release and the fierceness in his face would melt away.

It was a strange thing that the two of them should have found each other, but then, the gods worked in strange ways. Watching them, he felt the oddest sensation. It was as though they were meant for each other, and it brought him peace to see them together. He watched them now as she sat encased in his arms. They painted a tranquil picture. Both had somber expressions on their faces, and they seemed to be thinking about very serious things.

Who they really were didn't matter; Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane didn't exist here on The Quiet Isle. They were merely two souls seeking refuge. And they needed it desperately. In their eyes, he could see the pain and the suffering they had experienced in their lives. It was more easily found in hers, but there were flickers of it in his eyes at times. The only times they appeared completely relaxed was when they were with each other.

He walked over the sloped ground to where they were sitting. Sansa smiled prettily up at him before scrambling to her feet, a little pink in the face. Sandor rose and stood behind her, smiling slightly at her reaction. His hand was resting on the small of her back, and she was twisting her fingers together somewhat nervously. Elder Brother couldn't help but notice that she always seemed worried whenever someone came around the two of them.

"I was wondering if you would take a walk with me, Lady Stark."

He saw the way she cringed when she heard her mother's former title applied to her, but she covered it easily with a small smile.

"Of course," her soft voice lilted. Turning slightly, she held her hand out to Sandor. He gave it a reassuring squeeze before she moved away to stand beside Elder Brother.

They set off at a slow pace, neither one talking. She kept glancing behind to where Sandor had resumed digging as though to assure herself that he was still there.

"You don't like being without him." It wasn't a question, but she answered it just the same.

"No, I don't." Her words were soft, but the sentiment was firm.

"You love him."

She bowed her head, a flush building up her neck and reaching to her cheeks. He understood her hesitation. There were few things more terrifying than baring the truth of one's heart, and she had been hurt so many times before. That she was still able to trust after all the times her faith had gone unrewarded was a true miracle.

"Few things in life are certain, my lady. It is impossible to even know how long it will last, of which, I'm sure you're more aware than most. Here on this island, I every day pray to things I can't see. I blindly trust in things that I have no proof exist. That is pure faith.

"What you have in Sandor Clegane is pure faith. You had no reason to trust him when you left with him. There was no proof of goodness in him, no proof that he wouldn't hurt you. But you believed in him, and now you rely on him.

"You were right to do so. There is no need to doubt yourself now. And you shouldn't doubt him, either. He loves you, too. I can see it."

Biting her lip, she studied the ground, watching the even pace of her feet. What Elder Brother was saying came as no surprise to her, but it still gave her a pleasant shock to hear it. To hear someone else say that Sandor loved her made her blood race and her heart beat painfully.

"I felt so lost for so long, but when I'm with Sandor, it's like I'm finally standing on solid ground. It scares me to imagine my life without him."

Elder Brother nodded. "After everything that you've lost, it's hard for you to trust that someone could stay in your life permanently."

"But it's not him I'm worried about. I know he will never leave me through his own actions. It's the rest of the world I worry about. My brothers didn't kill themselves."

The bitterness in her voice didn't suit her, and it worried him to see her giving in to it. She sighed and shook her head as though trying to push away the heavy thoughts.

"But it's easy to believe that nothing bad will happen here. It's so peaceful and safe. I almost feel like nothing bad could reach us here."

"But you can't stay here forever," he reminded her gently.

Her blue eyes looked troubled.

"I know."

* * *

Later that night, Sansa settled into the chair in front of the tiny fireplace in her cabin. She pulled out her sewing and set to work on it again, Elder Brother's words still swirling through her mind. The Quiet Isle was built to be an escape from the world, and it was tempting to ask Sandor to spend the rest of their lives here together. Part of her wondered why they couldn't, but the other half of her knew that Elder Brother was right. They would have to leave eventually.

The rhythmic motions of the needle soothed her, and she allowed it to lull her away from her musings. Her thoughts grew fuzzy and were only focused on the task at hand. The heavy knocking on her door made her jump, and she hurriedly put away the fabric before going to answer the door.

Sandor filled the doorway, and she smiled up at him, grabbing his hand and pulling him inside. There was only the one chair and she led him to it. She hesitated at his side. He opened his arms to her, and she folded herself onto his lap with a grin. With her knees pulled up to her chin, she turned her head so that she was looking sideways at him.

"How did your talk with Elder Brother go?"

"It was all right," she shrugged. "He gave me a lot of things to think about."

"What kind of things?"

"Just, the future. And what it looks like. And what it's going to include."

"And what is it going to include?"

"Hopefully, you."

"I'm not going anywhere. I've told you that before."

"Sandor, I don't want you to think you have to stay with me. I know you said you'd be my sworn shield, but you couldn't have known what that would mean. I don't want to be a burden to you."

"You are not a burden," he growled.

"But I am a lot to take on, and I'm scared. There is no way of knowing what we face. Everything seems so impossible. Don't feel obligated if it's too much—"

The kiss took her by surprise, and it took her a moment to respond to him. Before long, she melted against him, snaking her arms around his neck so she could pull him closer. It started out sweet and full of comfort and reassurance, but it quickly grew to something more impassioned, more intense.

Her hands went from gently caressing the back of his neck to tightly gripping his hair. Their breathing became frenzied, and their teeth clashed together as the passion in their kiss increased. His hand ran down her arm and ghosted over her hip. She jumped pleasurably at the sensation, and it emboldened him to go further. His touch traced over her leg, pausing to massage her kneecap briefly.

Her kisses became needier, and she found herself wanting something that she didn't know how to ask for. His other hand was at her waist, and she pressed against it, needing to feel his strong and warm touch. The hand on her leg began pushing up on the fabric of her dress, slipping beneath it rub her calf. She moaned at the sensation of his flesh on hers. Unconsciously, she parted her legs, bringing them so that she was straddling him. The fabric of her skirt fell back, revealing the lower part of her thighs. His rough hands ran over her soft flesh, and she moaned louder.

Every inch of her skin felt like it was on fire, and wherever his hands fell, a trail of goose bumps followed in their wake. She ground her hips against him, finding his hardness beneath her exhilarating. His lips became more demanding, and his hands more daring.

With a groan, he lifted her off of his lap and carried her over to the bed. He set her down with surprising gentleness and then lowered himself so that he was kneeling over her with her body between his legs. His hands were on either side of her head, and she could feel him tightly gripping the sheets.

His kissed her hungrily, and she returned the action just as feverishly. Her light touch fluttered over his cheeks and down to his chest. Again, he pushed back her skirts, letting his hands explore. Her legs separated at his touch, and she grabbed the front of his tunic, dragging him closer. His hand crept closer to her hip, and she felt a wetness forming between thighs.

With a sharp intake of breath, she froze, suddenly extremely aware that his hands had been a bit too bold in their ministrations. He drew back instantly, taking his hands with him. Backing away from her, he watched her cautiously, afraid that he had pushed her too far. Angrily, he stood up and crossed to the door. He didn't want to scare her off, and he had stupidly let himself get carried away.

Her chest was heaving, and with shaking hands, she pulled her skirts down and readjusted herself. She slid off of the bed and walked toward him, an uncertain smile on her face.

"I guess we know why Elder Brother won't let us stay together," she said with a cautious laugh.

He snorted in agreement, admiring her lithe form as it moved toward him. When she reached him, she brought her hands to his face, and he captured her hips in his grasp. She leaned in for another kiss, and he returned it only briefly.

"I think, it's time for me to leave," he whispered against her lips. Reluctantly, she let him go. Opening the door, he stepped out into the night with one last glance at her. He was halfway to his cabin when he heard her voice sing his name in the dark.

Her light footsteps pattered over the ground as she ran at him, and he caught her in his arms easily. She could only see the outline of his face, and it made it easier for her to say what she needed to say.

"I—I love you."

She whispered it so quietly that he could barely hear it. Before he had a chance to respond, she flew away, leaving him alone in the night.

* * *

With bated breath, she stepped gingerly, careful to follow Septon Meribald's path. She could hear his bare feet squishing in the mud, and the sound did little to quell her fears. It was a tricky and crooked path to the Isle, and she tried not to lose faith in their leader. Following closely behind him, she hoped that she had done enough good in her life to let her pass unharmed.

Podrick behind her was equally scared, if not more so, and she knew that Meribald's stories of the mudflats had him terrified that he was going to be sucked down to his death. She wanted to reassure him, but she knew that the words would come out hollow, so she held her tongue and pressed on.

They had started their journey as soon as the rosy light of dawn made the path visible, and the grey light of the early morning had begun to give into the pale yellow sunlight of early afternoon. Their progress was slow, but none of them complained. They knew that whenever Meribald paused, it was to check the path, and they were eager for the septon to find the right way.

"We seem to be going in every direction but the way to the damn isle!" Ser Hyle Hunt called from the back.

Brienne grit her teeth in annoyance, but Septon Meribald answered him calmly.

"Have faith. Believe, persist, and follow, and we shall find the peace we seek."

Ser Hyle said nothing more, though she could sense his irritation. She felt it, as well, but she bit it back.

When they finally reached the other side, Brienne's breath burst out in a sigh of relief. Podrick and Ser Hyle looked equally glad to be on solid ground, and they were all so intent upon their arrival that they didn't even notice the three brothers that approached them.

Ser Meribald walked forward first, extending an old, leather hand in their direction. The Brother at the front grasped it in both of his own hands, speaking a low greeting to them all.

"I am Brother Narbert. Welcome to the Quiet Isle."

He spoke with great import and used his words sparingly. In fact, he said nothing more to them after the initial greeting. Instead, he and the other two brothers silently led them up a pebbled path. The quiet of the journey was so oppressive that Brienne felt uncomfortable even speaking to her companions, so she kept the silence.

The trek was steep, and she was already tired from the taxing journey to get here. But her cause was stronger than her exhaustion, and she pushed on, taking in the beauty of the island. They passed a white stable, and glancing inside, she found it to be mostly empty save for a few mules clustered at the opposite end. Far away from them, a great, black stallion pawed the ground, looking menacing and dangerous.

Something struck her as odd about the destrier, but she shook away the thought and kept climbing. Because of the steepness of the hill, the brothers had constructed a series of wooden stairs that zigzagged their way up. They mounted these now, the switchbacks taking them back and forth among the various buildings situated on the hill. They passed several brothers, but not one spoke a word of greeting to them.

She found that she rather enjoyed the stillness of the place, but it clearly had an eerie effect on her companions. Only Meribald appeared comfortable with the place; beside him, Podrick and Ser Hyle shivered and looked around them with faces full of uncertainty and apprehension.

The brow of the hill was a welcome sight with its low stone wall running along the crest. It encircled a cluster of buildings, among which Brienne spotted a large windmill and a wooden sept. The somber images of the Mother and Father stared at her with wooden faces carved in its doors. She stared into their eyes for a long time, seeking an end to her quest.

Brother Narbert led them behind the sept where a large vegetable garden grew. Several older brothers were working there, but they didn't pause to speak to them. Instead, he led them around a massive chestnut tree to where a wooden door was set into the hillside.

Curiously, Brienne neared the door, wondering was beyond it. With a firm knock, Narbert opened the door, leading them into the warm and cozy hole. After they expressed their gratitude, he left them alone with the tall man who occupied the space.

He looked at them with shrewd eyes, stroking his firm jaw in a thoughtful manner. His greeting was warm enough, but it was not without a touch of discernment. His gaze settled on her, and she found herself studying his red, veiny nose, unable to meet his direct stare.

"What brings you here? I am guessing you didn't travel all this way for our ale."

His words were not without kindness, and they made her bold enough to look him straight in the eyes.

"I am looking for Sansa Stark."

* * *

**I wish I could go live on the Quiet Isle and garden for the rest of my life! School is so hard right now! I am busy, busy, busy, but I have the night off, and I'm going to use it to keep writing. So let's see if I can't just get another chapter up tonight!**

**Thanks for reading, guys. It is so nice to have so many positive responses, and I am so glad y'all are enjoying it. xxx**


	24. Chapter 24

**I did not update as quickly as I said I would, but that is hardly a surprise at this point. I had a crazy weekend, but I'm back!**

**GRRM gets all credit for all characters and ASOIAF.**

* * *

Brienne sighed. Her visit with Elder Brother had yielded no results other than the cabin in which she was currently trying to sleep. Situated on the east side of the island, the cluster of cabins was located in an area that felt colder and less inviting. The cabin itself was cozy, and Brienne found it perfectly appealing despite its modesty.

Though she and her party had arrived in early afternoon, the rest of their talk with Elder Brother and her subsequent trek back down the hill and to her cabin had taken most of the day, and night had quickly fallen. She was so exhausted that she had collapsed onto the bed, ready to sleep for days. Her body vibrated with the aftershocks of her laborious day. Despite her tiredness, she couldn't get her mind to stop racing.

There was no use trying to sleep. She was too anxious, too intent upon her task to find peace. Sighing in frustration, she tossed and turned, trying to figure out what Elder Brother wanted her to do. He had been evasive—frustratingly so—in the face of all of her questions and had only answered them with questions of his own. She'd had the strangest sensation that he was concealing something from her, but she couldn't imagine why. Closing her eyes, she ran through the conversation again, looking for hints.

Following her declaration, Elder Brother had studied her with a little enigmatic smile pulling at his lips.

"And what do you want with Sansa Stark?" he had asked.

"I swore to her mother that I would find her daughter and return her to her."

"Her mother is dead, though." He had said it as though he was testing her, looking for the right answer.

"She is, in a sense," she had countered.

Fingertips pressed together, Elder Brother had nodded at her. Silence descended, and it'd roared in her ears. Wildly, she'd wondered if she'd said the wrong thing. But Elder Brother hadn't looked troubled, and she'd bit back the urge to ask him how his religion explained Lady Catelyn's resurrection. She needed him on her side, and not wanting to upset him, she had held back her questions. He'd had questions of his own, however.

"You take this oath very seriously, don't you?"

"I do."

More mysterious smiles, more discerning eyes. She'd shifted uncomfortably as he studied her, and her companions had watched as he'd stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"I think, with a bit of faith and a lot of patience, you will find what you're looking for."

With a nod, he had turned away to talk to Septon Meribald, leaving her frustrated and discouraged. After Septon Meribald had agreed to take the brothers' confessions, the five of them had continued to discuss the progress of the war, lamenting the tragic deaths of all of the fallen men—the Starks listed among them. But no news of Sansa had passed Elder Brother's lips, and Brienne found herself slowly losing patience with the tall man.

When he had finally dismissed them, she'd pulled him aside, trying to convey the urgency of her mission.

"When The Brotherhood found me, they told me that Sansa had been kidnapped by The Hound. Lady Catelyn, or Lady Stoneheart as they call her, made it very clear that I cannot fail in my mission. I do not doubt that my fate and hers will be very bleak indeed if I don't find her."

Elder Brother had regarded her with sorrowful eyes.

"A worthy mission, done for the wrong reasons, will always fail. I can quite assure you that The Hound is dead. And as for Lady Sansa, I can see that you have her best intentions at heart, but I think, perhaps, her mother does not."

Mind racing, Brienne tried to make sense of all the information thrown at her. He had said it all in a straightforward manner, and yet, she couldn't help but feel like it was a puzzle that she was putting together wrong. With a kind smile, Elder Brother had guided her over to Brother Narbert.

"You are a woman of action. I can understand how you would want instant results. But some things take longer. What you seek will come to you in time."

Then, he had left her with Brother Narbert who had escorted her in silence to her cabin. Now, she stared at the dark ceiling, trying for patience but only finding frustration. After lying awake for hours, exhaustion finally won out, bringing her rest, but not bringing her peace.

* * *

She slept far longer and later than she'd intended, but she'd needed the rest. Pulling herself out of bed, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stretched her sore limbs. As she left the cabin for the day, she determined that she would find Elder Brother and make him tell her more about Sansa and The Hound.

She wandered about the Isle, completely at a loss for what she should do. Several of the brothers were out, but of course, none of them spoke to her. Instead, they were involved in various tasks ranging from gardening to going to the sept to pray. Free to explore on her own, she wondered yet again what it was that Elder Brother was expecting her to search for.

All of this was getting to be too much. She just wanted answers. She allowed her feet to carry her and her thoughts far away, and her attention was so far away that she didn't even realize where she was going. It was with a start that she noticed the massive man in the corner of her vision. His back was to her, and he was bent over his shovel as he dug feverishly and fervently. Something about his tall figure made her draw pause; there was a niggling at the back of her mind, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was meant to find him.

He straightened up and wiped his brow. Leaning on his shovel, he turned slightly, and she thought for a moment that he had seen her. But he was looking at someone else, and curiously, a smile was splitting across his face. With amazed eyes, she followed his gaze to the beautiful, auburn-haired girl walking toward him.

Before her mind could even process what she was seeing, her astonishment multiplied exponentially at the girl's beaming face. Taking the big man's hand, she stood on her tiptoes to caress his face. There was an obvious intimacy between the two, and Brienne felt intrusive watching even from this distance. But she couldn't look away. It was the strangest thing, but she was positive that this was the girl she was looking for.

She didn't know how long she stood there, but she was utterly transfixed by them. His arms were wrapped around her waist and hers were around his neck, and their foreheads were pressed together. Utterly consumed in one another's eyes and smiling all the while, they spoke about apparently serious things. After a while, they broke apart, and still holding hands, they began to pull away.

She realized that the girl was leaving, and she began running toward her. So intent was she upon reaching Lady Stark's daughter that she didn't even notice the hulking figure charging toward her.

Blinking in surprise, she realized that she'd somehow ended up lying in the dirt. Dimly, she was aware that her body hurt quite a bit from her hard collision with the ground. She staggered to her feet, looking around for the object that had knocked her down.

The huge man towered above her, glaring down fiercely, his upper lip pulled back. Only now could she see his face in its entirety. It was horribly scarred, a mess of warped and twisted flesh, red and angry in some places and black in others. Looking into his monstrous face, Brienne knew that despite what Elder Brother had said, The Hound most certainly was not dead. Behind him, the girl stared at her with wide, blue eyes. Her tiny, pale hand was resting on his bulging upper arm, holding him back from doing more harm.

His stance was protective, but there was more in his posture than just that of a sworn shield. In his eyes, she could see just how far he would go to defend the girl concealed behind him. There was a promise in them to absolutely destroy anyone that would try to hurt her. Palms up in a supplicatory gesture, Brienne tried to show that she meant no harm. Though neither of them had swords, she still felt that The Hound had the upper hand.

"Please, Lady Sansa, I am here on your mother' behalf," she begged, craning her neck so she could get a look at the girl.

"That doesn't help your case," he growled, shifting his weight menacingly.

Reaching an enormous hand behind him, he started pushing her away, and Brienne felt a tug of desperation. She needed Sansa to listen. She had come too far for her to walk away now.

"I know she's—not quite herself, but I promised her I'd keep you safe, and she said that you'd been captured by The Hound. I only came to save you. After everything you and your family have been through, the last thing I'd ever want to do is cause you more pain."

Biting her lip, Sansa stared hard into the woman's eyes. They were both tall and close to similar height, but Brienne still stood taller. Brienne stared determinedly back with nothing to hide.

"Sandor, wait," she whispered softly, her hand still on his arm.

At her words, The Hound relaxed slightly, though he didn't look entirely convinced. Sansa's grip slid down his arm to find his hand, and she stepped forward uncertainly.

"You've seen my…mother…recently?"

"I have," she dipped her head in assent.

Sansa sighed prettily, her face etched in sadness.

"Hers is a sad fate. She walks with the living but can only think of the dead. I can barely think of her as my mother anymore."

Brienne wavered. She was unsure if her opinion would be a welcome thing on this matter. Treading lightly, she ventured to make an innocuous comment.

"She doesn't say much, but she remembers everything that your family has lost."

"They should have never brought her back." A single tear slipped down her face. Sansa brushed it away before continuing. "She belongs to the grave. I wish they would let her die. It would be a mercy."

Brienne didn't know what to say to that, so she tried to change the subject instead.

"My lady, I am so sorry for your loss, but in light of recent events, I really need to talk to you. Maybe we can go somewhere more private?" She looked pointedly at The Hound.

Sansa drew closer to her protector, and he placed a hand on the small of her back.

"Of course," she lilted. "The three of us can go to my cabin to talk."

She gripped his hand tighter, and without leaving any room for argument, she led them away.

Once inside the cabin, Brienne was suddenly aware of how small it was. Sansa offered the only chair in the room to the tall woman, but she declined. The Hound helped Sansa into it instead and then moved to stand behind her.

Pacing slightly, Brienne searched for the words. Sansa patiently waited for her to start talking.

"When I heard about what had happened to your family, I was devastated. I swore fealty to your mother just before her unfortunate death and even more unfortunate revival. Though she is dead, my loyalty still lies with House Stark."

Sansa laughed humorlessly. "There is no one left in House Stark."

"There is you."

Sansa shifted uncomfortably, tracing tiny white scars on the palm of her hand. Brienne saw the way The Hound never took his eyes off of her, and she saw the way Sansa reached up for his hand, seeking comfort. They were very forward with each other, and their behavior was hardly that which was appropriate between a lady and her sworn shield.

Though it was surely impossible, Brienne couldn't help but wonder if the two of them were involved somehow.

"I am nothing," she whispered. The Hound snarled in disagreement, and she nuzzled her cheek against his hand, her lips whispering across his knuckles. Brienne tried her best not to gape at them.

Shaking her head, she studied the girl with earnest eyes.

"When your brother died, he was King in the North. He left behind no heirs. Ser Jaime reassured me that he had no children, and your brothers are all dead."

"I think she's quite aware of that," The Hound spat, lashing out after seeing the pain her words had caused Sansa.

"You are the only Stark left," she continued, ignoring The Hound's hostility. "And you are our last hope."

She crossed the small space between her and Sansa and came to kneel before her.

"I am here to pledge my unwavering loyalty and support to Sansa Stark, Queen in the North."

* * *

**It's midterm week! Terrible, terrible times are ahead. I would warn that I'm probably not going to post much until I get through all of my tests, but who are we kidding. I am the world's biggest slacker, and I procrastinate like no other. This is my distraction of choice, so chances are, my uploading will probably go uninterrupted. However, on the off-chance I do go silent for a while, that would be why.**

**I'm 99.99999 percent sure that the next chapter will be a Gendry/Arya chapter, but we will be getting back to Jon and the Bran Clan soon. Also, Sandor and Sansa because their journey has just taken an interesting turn, hasn't it?**

**I'm having so much fun writing this, and I'm kind of really excited to keep going. Thanks for reading, guys! xxx**


	25. Chapter 25

**This week reached a whole new, special level of awful. School was abysmal, work was frustrating, and I honestly don't know how I got through as many sleepless nights as I did. Luckily, it's over! To celebrate, I had a great weekend and then wrote this!**

**GRRM gets all credit for all characters and ASOIAF. I don't write for profit!**

* * *

Sansa was struck dumb by the tall woman's declaration. She hadn't known what to expect from Brienne, but this certainly wasn't it. For the woman to come and call her a queen was frankly mystifying. Sandor was gripping her hand so hard, she was starting to lose feeling in her fingers. With wondrous eyes, she looked up to him while gently tugging out of his iron vice.

Her words were stuck in her throat; she could think of nothing to say in the face of such a bold statement. Brienne was still on her knee, and her face was still full of confidence despite Sansa's obvious doubts. Knees quaking below her, she gripped the arms of her chair and forced herself to a standing position. She felt Sandor's strong hands around her shoulders. After he'd helped her stand, he started to withdraw his grip.

His comforting presence was the only thing to make sense to her, and its sudden absence left her feeling rudderless. She turned to him, and the look in her eyes was all he needed to know what she wanted from him. He lifted a heavy arm, and she scurried beneath it, burying her face in his chest. Completely overcome, she let herself calm in his arms as he rubbed soothing circles on her back.

Confusing minutes ticked by. When she'd finally collected herself, she turned around, finding Brienne still on the floor. Instantly, she was filled with regret.

"Forgive me. Please, rise. I am quite overwhelmed. Would you allow me to ask you a few questions?"

Brienne nodded and rose, and Sansa pressed her hands against her skirts. Out of the corner of her gaze, Sansa saw Sandor smiling slightly. She caught his eye and bit back a small smile of her own, knowing what he was thinking: _the little bird never forgets her manners_. Brienne was watching them, and Sansa realized that she had caught their subtle exchange.

Sansa cleared her throat, and Sandor, his arm still wrapped around her, gave her a light squeeze. She splayed a hand on his chest, keeping her body mostly angled into his. The two of them regarded the tall knight in the dying light of the day. Sansa's abandoned chair stood between them.

"Did my mother send you here to put me on the throne?"

"No, my la—Your Grace. I promised to find you when your brother was still king, and I never break my word. As I said, I only came to save you from The Hound and return you to your mother."

"So at what point did you change your goal?"

Brienne hesitated, amazed by the strange couple in front of her.

"When I met Lady Stoneheart, I started to feel that something was amiss. And seeing you with—_him_—now made me realize that you might not be in need of saving after all. Unless, of course, he is holding you against your will."

She looked at Brienne for a long time before answering her.

"Sandor Clegane is the truest man I have ever known. I owe him my life and so much more. I will not permit anyone to question his honor or his intentions."

Brienne blinked in surprise, not prepared for the girl's sharp reaction. Even Sandor looked taken aback, but Sansa could see a gleam of pride in his eyes. His hand slipped to the small of her back, and she leaned against him lightly.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. I was merely looking after your best interests."

"That's my job," Sandor rumbled intimidatingly.

A pained expression passed across Sansa's face.

"Please don't call me that. I'm not royalty."

Sandor made a noise, but she couldn't tell if it was in agreement or not.

"The North needs you. It's calling for blood. The Freys and the Lannisters took your family from you. Surely, they should answer for that."

"I can't justify a war over my personal loss."

"Is that what you think your brother did? Marched against the Lannisters just because they killed your father? Because I promise you, those men wouldn't have followed him if his cause wasn't worthy."

Sansa shook her head. She didn't have the answers. She didn't know about wars and politics, and she didn't know how to be queen. She didn't know how to lead men.

"Or perhaps you don't think your brother had any right to be king at all. Did the Lannisters fill your head with so many lies that you began to believe them?"

"Don't," she said faintly. "Don't suggest that I didn't support my brother. Because I did. I believed that he would take King's Landing, set me free, and bring me Joffrey's head. His claim to the crown was true. My family has a royal legacy that is thousands of years old. But…I can't…I'm not Robb. I'm just a silly little girl who saw her dreams crushed and her innocence lost."

Silent tears streaked down her face, and Sandor gently rubbed them away.

"And don't think that I don't want to take Joffrey's head myself sometimes. I dream about killing him. After everything he put me through, there are times when I think that nothing would make me feel better than killing him would. But there's no balance in that. No peace. No matter how much I hate him, I will never touch him," she finished bitterly.

"Well, lucky for you, The Imp killed him for you. At least that's what the rumor's say. Ser Jaime seems to believe differently. He blames the Tyrells."

Sansa hiccupped in shock.

"Joffrey's dead?"

Brienne nodded solemnly. In the face of Sansa's astonishment, she told the girl of all that had passed in King's Landing after her flight.

"What a mess," Sansa murmured, glancing at Sandor to glean his reaction. He stared back at her impassively.

"Where's the Kingslayer now?" He growled in the tall woman's direction.

"_Ser Jaime_ left to lift the siege at Riverrun. He delivered your brother's wife to her family at The Crag. She was with child."

Sansa could tell from the way she bowed her head that the child hadn't made it. Her heart broke a little bit more with the knowledge that yet another family member of hers had died.

"That still doesn't answer my question. Where's the Kingslayer _now_?" Sandor persisted, his eyes hard and defiant.

"_Ser Jaime_," Brienne corrected coldly. Something it in the way she said his name made Sansa think that there was more to their relationship than she was letting on. Sandor's arm tensed around her, and she placed a placating hand over his.

"Where is Ser Jaime?" Her soft voice made both warriors relax slightly, and Brienne looked at her with a touch of gratitude in her eyes.

"I'm not entirely sure. I—I think he's gone a bit mad."

Brienne looked at her mournfully, and Sansa felt her heart tug for the woman.

"You care for him, don't you?"

"I'm worried about him. He sent me a letter, and the way it was written—it sounded as though he had nothing left to lose. Understand, his whole life, he's had a cause and a means for fighting for it. But now, everything is slipping away."

Quickly, she told Sansa of how Jaime had lost his hand, and subsequently, his confidence. Sansa looked horrified, clasping a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. Nodding heavily, Brienne could tell that the girl understood.

"I think he went to Raventree. The last of your brother's supporters are there."

"What does he want with them?"

Brienne shrugged.

"If I had to guess? To bring them under Tommen's banners. In his letter, he said that his son was his last hope."

"Well, I hope for his sake that Tommen makes it. Nothing can tear you apart quite like losing your family."

Haltingly, Brienne glanced at the beautiful girl, so young and so tragic.

"Speaking of your family, I've heard news of your sister. They said that Roose Bolton has taken Winterfell as his new home and Arya Stark as his bride."

Sansa crumpled against Sandor, and he was quick to pull her against him.

"I'll get her back for you, Little Bird," he muttered in her ear.

His deep voice reached Brienne's ears, and she scoffed at his words.

"You alone can't take back Winterfell. But, I'm sure that Ser Jaime would be able to help you."

"In exchange for what?" Sansa countered.

"Pledge the Queen in the North's support to King Tommen."

Sansa closed her eyes. Part of her felt betrayed by Brienne's manipulation. It was cruel of her to use her sister's predicament to force her to take the throne, but she knew that the Northmen wouldn't follow anything less than northern blood. A staggering terror gripped her. All her life, she'd never had strength of her own; she'd never needed it. But now, the only family she had left was in danger, and she alone had the power to save her.

She opened her eyes and glanced up at Sandor only to find him already staring back at her. There was a strange look in his eyes, almost like fear. It clashed with anger and sadness, and Sansa didn't understand what it meant. A new resolve consumed and hardened in his grey eyes, and she felt his grip loosen and slip away from her.

Sansa balked. Though Brienne appeared to be an honorable woman, Sansa knew that despite what she swore, her loyalty would always belong first and foremost to Jaime Lannister. She doubted that Brienne even realized this, but she could see how much the woman cared for him. Though they would be on the same side for now, Sansa knew if the time came when she and Jaime had to part ways, Brienne would be torn, but she would likely ultimately choose Jaime. _That's fine,_ Sansa thought, _I don't need anyone but Sandor._

Fondly, she looked up at the big man, but for the first time, he wasn't looking back at her. He seemed distant, aloof even, and he was looking into the fire with deep concentration. This troubled her, but she didn't let herself linger on it. Looking back at Brienne, she stood taller, feeling the steel of her skin coming back. She had survived King's Landing. She could survive this for Arya's sake.

"Do you think you can find Ser Jaime?"

Brienne nodded confidently. Sansa could suddenly feel Sandor's burning gaze on her.

"Then go to him. Tell him that I will support Tommen's claim to the throne. Then, rally the North. Tell them that their queen is coming home."

Following her announcement, Sansa expected to feel empowered, but she only felt more doubts. She would have felt better if Sandor was there to support her, but at her words, he thundered out of the room, the slamming of the door echoing around the small space. She flinched, completely at a loss at his reaction. Brienne looked deeply into her eyes.

"Are you sure everything is okay with him?"

Sansa nodded despite the confused tears slipping into her eyes. After a moment's hesitation, Brienne spoke again.

"We will leave when the tide goes out again."

She bowed to her and left her alone in the room.

* * *

It felt as though she was slipping away. Sandor had let her in and trusted her more than he had ever trusted anyone before. He had stupidly allowed himself to believe that there was a chance for them. He had allowed himself to be deluded into thinking that she actually cared for him. But she didn't love him, not really. He was just something to cling to when she'd had nothing. Now, she was Queen in the North. Now, she would leave him, take back her home, marry some lord, and forget him.

Bitterness drove him to drink.

Every morning, he knew that she would go to the sept to pray. It brought her comfort, though he didn't understand why. He knew she'd be there now, looking for strength in the empty room. Stumbling to his feet, he staggered to the door, allowing his feet to take him to her.

Superbly beautiful, she knelt before the sept, her long auburn curls cascading down her back. She seemed to glow in the soft candlelight. It was maddening to think that she was within his grasp, and yet, so far out of reach.

Deeply buried within him was the truth of the situation: she was so far under his skin, she might as well be the blood that ran through his veins. The alcohol dulled the pain as he prepared to tear her from him.

When he burst into the sept, she stiffened. The tiny building seemed to vibrate with his rage, and the tension in her shoulders told him that she could sense it. _That's good. She would need those instincts when she was queen._

The last time she'd seen him this drunk—or drunk at all—was the night of Stannis' failed invasion. She had been terrified then, and she was terrified now. She wasn't scared of what he would do in his anger, but she was scared of what his anger meant.

He swayed in the doorway, bleary eyes bloodshot and blinking at her. Cautiously, she rose to meet him, gentle hands smoothing his hair, soothing the hot flush on his face. The smell of liquor was overpowering, and it seemed to leak from his very pores. There were tears in his eyes, though she doubted that he realized it. He jerked away from her, his eyes narrowing cruelly.

"The little bird has found her wings. Now she's going to fly away from me," he slurred, gripping her hard for balance.

Her stomach sank heavily. She finally understood what this was about.

"Where do you think I'm going?" she whispered carefully.

"Home. You're going home to Winterfell, and you're leaving me behind."

"How can I leave you if you're joining me? You said you'd go North with me."

"Why in Seven Hells would I do that? To watch you marry some bloody lord? To watch you have his whelps? To become your dog again and then theirs? Fuck that, Sansa."

Tears stung in her eyes. They were a result of his harsh words, but not because of what they did to her, but because of what they meant for him. His whole life, he hadn't been able to trust anyone, and he had never known love. She couldn't blame him for doubting her now. It hurt to have him push her away, but she knew that it must hurt him even more to sense that he was losing her. Never before had he let his guard down like this, and she saw the anger that he was using to mask his crushed hopes. Violence was an impulse that followed his anger, and though she knew he would never hurt her, she was afraid that he would do harm to himself. Desperately, she tried to calm him and explain that he had no reason to fear losing her.

"Sandor, you are everything to me."

"I was when you had nothing. But you don't need to worry now. The North is full of men who will protect you. You will be their queen, and you will have all of your fine things and your pretty dresses, just like you always wanted."

_Just like I could never give you._

She was struggling under his weight, and as the alcohol dragged him further and further under its control, he was having a harder time holding himself up. As carefully as she could, she lowered him to the ground so that they were both sitting on the floor of the sept.

Smoothing his hair away from his face, she tried to quiet him and mop the sweaty sheen from his face.

"You know none of that stuff matters to me anymore. All I care about is my family." She wanted him to be a part of her family, too, but she couldn't say that to him; not while he was in the condition he was currently in. "I need to save Arya from that horrible man. Besides, the North needs me. These are dangerous times, and any guidance and protection I can give them will be—"

"Why does it fall to you to defend them?! I told you once that anyone who cannot protect themselves deserves to die!" He thundered his interruption, his nostrils flaring dangerously.

"And you protected me anyway!" she shot back hotly.

"That's because I love you!" he burst out exasperatedly.

Silence roared in their ears following his affirmation. Sansa's heart beat erratically. She'd known this all along, of course, but to hear it made her body hum with pleasure. After she'd whispered it that night, both of them had pretended like it hadn't happened, Sandor out of awkwardness, and Sansa out of hurt and embarrassment. Realizing what he'd said, Sandor dropped his eyes to the ground, embarrassed. Reaching a trembling hand between them, she lifted his chin so that he could meet her gaze.

His eyes were watery and unfocused, but when they met hers, she saw a spark of vitality and focus return to them. He dragged his big body so that it was closer to hers. Before she even realized what he was doing, he'd dropped his head into her lap and his arms around her waist. She calmly brought her hands to run through his hair as she whispered sweet words of comfort to still his violent temper. Just when she thought he'd drifted off to sleep, she heard him mumble against the fabric of her skirt. She leaned closer so she could hear him.

"I'm sorry Little Bird. I'll never leave you."

"I know," she whispered. "I love you."

She pressed a kiss to the back of his head and closed her eyes and leaned down so that she was folded over him, her head resting on his. Under the eyes of the Seven, she prayed harder than she ever had before. She prayed for herself, she prayed for Sandor, she prayed for the North, and she prayed for her sister, wherever she was.

* * *

The city was silent. There was no sound save for the rustle of the wind and of bed sheets. Rats gathered in the alleys and scattered in the gloom.

No One was there.

She moved swiftly, silently, her small frame moving easily through the shadows. Surefooted and deadly, she became one with the darkness, finding it easier and easier to lose herself in the obscurity. With catlike agility and adroitness, she leapt onto a low-hanging roof, the higher vantage point more desirable, and the rooftops, easier to navigate.

She was adept at this by now, clearing the space between rooftops in seamless and soundless bounds. There was no hesitation in her movements, no falter in her footsteps. She stopped only when she spotted her target. He was patrolling the docks, just as he should be.

She swung herself to the ground, her feet landing in mute succession. His back was to her, and he neither saw nor heard her coming. Her knife was at his neck in an instant, and he knew better than to yell out. Pulling out the small vile The Alchemist had given her, she forced his mouth open and poured its contents down his throat. As the potion took its effect, she released him, finding that it made him immobile. He looked at her with terror in his frozen eyes, but she only stared back calmly. He had nothing to fear; it was only death.

With a shove, she sent him tumbling from the dock and into the water. When they found him, they would call it a drowning and nothing more. In the blink of an eye, she was gone, her job done.

Once she returned to the House of Black and White, she found sleep easily. Her mind was untroubled and unburdened in waking hours, but she was finding that to be untrue when she slept.

Sure enough, his blue eyes found her in her sleep. Every night, she would dream of him, and every morning, she would awaken, having forgotten the image. But she stared at him now, straining her subconscious to remember him. There was something achingly familiar about his face, but already, it was dimming, slipping away from her.

She woke up alone, her face blank and her mind empty, leaving the boy buried deep inside of her along with who she used to be.

* * *

**I don't like Faceless!Arya. She needs to get up out of Braavos fast, because I can't with her being away from Gendry. I just can't with that. **

**Speaking of, I can actually promise that the next chapter is about Gendry because it's half-written. Also, it might feature Jon, and wouldn't that be nice to find out what's going on with that dude?**

**Thanks for reading! I should be back soon! xxx**


	26. Chapter 26

**Mondays are no-fun-days! This day has, pardon my language, made me its bitch. Also, it took me entirely too long to post this. I haven't been writing as much as I want, and it's because I keep falling asleep at like 8:00 at night. I must be morphing into an old person or something. Good Lord. Anyway. Pointless rambling done.**

**GRRM gets all credit for all characters and ASOIAF. I don't write for profit!**

* * *

"Gendry?"

He wasn't asleep, but his mind had drifted far away, and he hadn't noticed her coming down the stairs. Turning to her now, he saw her hovering in the shadows, an uncertain look on her face. He smiled kindly at her, and she stepped further into the light.

"Yes, Shireen?"

"I was thinking about what you were saying the other night, and I had a question."

He balked. Talking about Arya had been painful, and though he was glad that Shireen knew about her, it was hard to keep talking about her when it seemed as though he would never see her again. Falteringly, he stared at her, waiting for her to continue.

"Isn't there a chance that the girl you talked about could be looking for you?"

He sighed sadly. The air gushed out of his lungs, and his breath was heavy and full of doubts.

"No, I don't think so."

"But why not? Doesn't she love you, too?"

Gendry paused, unsure of how to answer her. Because Arya wasn't like most people. Her trust in people had become so fractured that she had begun to doubt even her own convictions. Deep down, he knew Arya loved him, and he knew that even deeper down, she knew it, too. Her actions made it clear that this was true, but her stubborn nature wouldn't let her admit it. He almost smiled at the memory of her obstinate little face, dirty and full of determination.

"Arya is complicated. She trusted me completely, and I was stupid and tried to leave her for her own good. It took her months to trust me again. I don't know if she could ever forgive me after this."

His words shuttled to a halt, searching for a way to explain it. He had broken her deep, and he had no idea of the shape she had remolded herself into, but he couldn't help but feel that she was much more brittle now than before.

"So where do you think she is?"

"I think she's somewhere far away, trying to leave this all behind."

"Would you go after her, if you were able?"

"No. She needs to return on her own."

"Do you think she will?"

"Yes."

"Will you ever give up on her?"

"Never."

"How can you be so sure?"

Gendry paused. Shireen murmured a quick apology for all of her questions, but he waved her off. He knew that she had lived a sheltered and lonely life, and he wasn't about to hold it against her for being curious, and he wasn't about to deprive her of one of her few points of human contact. In truth, her questions had thrown him a bit. But, for all of the doubts racing around in his mind, he had answered her without hesitation or qualm.

"Because she is my family. And you never give up on family. And because I love her."

Wistfully, she stared at him, eyes full of sadness and wonder.

"What does it feel like to love someone?"

Gendry ran a hand over his face. His heart broke for the girl. She clearly lacked happiness in her life, and though he knew Stannis cared for her, it shocked him that her life was so devoid of love.

The question stumped him for some reason. Her face was so open and so innocent, and he didn't want to let her down. Biting his bottom lip, he stared into her wide eyes and took in her mangled face and kind smile.

Closing his eyes, he conjured the one image that always brought him peace. Arya's face swam before his eyes, brought to life by his subconscious. He imagined her so vividly that she almost felt real. His heart surged painfully. Those grey eyes. The skinny frame. The tiny features. They haunted him in sleep and wakefulness now, too. Focusing intently on the vision he'd summoned, he tried to figure out how to put words to the myriad emotions flooding through him.

"Love feels like…being full."

It sounded stupid to his ears, and had Arya been here, he knew she would have made fun of him. But upon further reflection, it felt true. Without her, he felt hollow, empty.

They had grown so close and she had become so much a part of him that it had stopped feeling as though they were two separate people.

He was terribly, terribly alone without her.

"Love is being whole," he continued, more certainly. "I would do anything for her. Kill for her. Die for her. I would take on all of her pain and suffering if I could. Nothing she would ask me for would be too much because I would rather go without than see her want for anything. I—"

He stopped short when he saw tears filling her eyes.

"Sorry," she whispered, wiping her cheeks. "It's just such a beautiful notion. And I don't think I'll ever know it."

"Shireen,"

"I'm not beautiful or special. I'm worthless and unwanted and useless."

Her words echoed with the authority of someone else, and from what she had told him of her mother, he suspected that it was her influence that had brought out Shireen's embittered words.

"There is more to beauty than outward appearances. You are beautiful, Shireen. And kind and wise. No one deserves love more than you."

Grateful tears flooded her eyes, and she offered him a watery smile. Before she could respond, the sound of a deep voice clearing its throat made them both jump. From the shadows, a tall figure emerged, light playing across the lined and grim face. Stannis frowned at the two of them, but he didn't look angry. Consideration narrowed his eyes, and he gazed at Gendry as though actually seeing him for the first time.

With a nudge that was not ungentle, he sent Shireen away. She looked as though she wanted to argue with him, worry for Gendry causing her to hesitate. But she knew better than to argue with her father, so unwillingly, she left the two of them there. After his daughter had left, Stannis unlocked Gendry's cell and started walking up the stairs.

"Come," he called over his shoulder.

* * *

They were in the same large room as before, the same large map upon the table. There was no sign of the Red Woman, for which Gendry was grateful. Before him, Stannis paced agitatedly. He seemed to be trying to work out something. Finally, the frantic motions of his feet halted so that he was standing right in front of him.

Unconsciously, Gendry rubbed at the scars on his arms. Stannis' eyes followed his motions.

"Do you know why we needed your blood?"

He spoke abruptly, and the question caught him off guard. Not trusting his voice, Gendry shook his head.

"We needed royal blood," he said quietly. His words weighed with their import, and he watched Gendry meaningfully, waiting for him to put it together.

Gendry's calloused hands twisted themselves together, his fingers becoming as tangled as his thoughts. Everything suddenly seemed very far away, as though he was seeing and hearing them through a fog. The only thing that resounded with any clarity was the loud thumping of his heart, pumping blood so hard that it seemed to explode to the tips of his fingertips. There was a roaring in his ears, and he wondered if it was his own racing thoughts.

"You needed…my blood…royal blood…my—royal blood?"

All of the blood rushing to his head was making him lightheaded, and he swayed woozily. Stannis nodded grimly, and Gendry wondered if he had any other facial expressions.

"That's impossible," he said flatly, looking away. "I have bastard blood. Not royal blood."

"The two aren't mutually exclusive," Stannis intoned ominously.

Gendry laughed hollowly at the man's words. His whole life, he had been told exactly where he ranked as an ill-born and parentless child. He was often looked at as little more than a vagrant, and if his poverty-stricken upbringing hadn't been enough, the gross disparity between his and Arya's circumstances was a painful reminder of how lowly he was.

"So, I'm royalty?"

"No. You have _royal blood_. There's a difference."

"It's apparently not a big enough distinction to keep you from wanting to kill me. That is your ultimate plan, isn't it?"

Stannis stared at him, his qualms evident in his gaze.

"That was my plan. Or, rather, her plan. She said I have to be willing to spill blood—make sacrifices—to become king. And I was willing—I am willing."

Gendry stayed silent. There was something in Stannis' words that hinted at uncertainty, and until he was sure of how to exploit that, he didn't want to antagonize him into anything rash that could cost him his life. Stannis' eyes flicked back over to him again.

"It is my blood that runs through your veins."

Gendry started. "Are you—?"

"No. Robert was. But you're my blood, just the same."

He seemed to reiterate it more for his own benefit than for Gendry's, and he took to muttering darkly to himself as he turned away to study his map. His eyes raced over it, but he didn't appear to be seeing anything. His lips moved quickly as he talked to himself. Gendry only caught snatches of it, but he heard enough to know that the man was struggling greatly with himself.

A worn piece of paper rested near his left hand, and he seized it and brought it before him. Even from where he stood, Gendry could see that it had unfolded and refolded, unfurled and rolled back up, crumpled and smoothed out, read and reread. Stannis stared at it desperately, as though looking for answers in it. He threw it to the ground, crushing it beneath his foot.

It was then that Gendry realized that the two of them were not alone in the room. At some point, a slight man with sad eyes and a greying beard had entered, but Gendry had been too intent upon the mystifying things Stannis was telling him to notice him. Puzzled, he stared at the man now. Stannis caught his gaze and followed it, his lip curling back slightly upon seeing the man.

"What is it, Davos?"

But Davos did not answer. Instead, he stared at the paper being crushed beneath Stannis' foot. He ground it beneath his heel and then kicked it away emphatically, causing it to flutter pathetically and then settle limply again. The older man's eyes shot up to Gendry, and this seemed to anger Stannis for some reason.

"Have you come to tell me what to do again?" His voice was full of ire, and even Gendry could tell how dangerous it was for Davos to answer him.

"Of course not, Your Grace. I would never presume to tell a king what to do. I think all of us here know what a king _should_ do."

The table groaned as Stannis slammed his fist against it.

"You would have me go to The Wall. It is a lost cause."

"Perhaps not, with your help. A king would help his people."

"I cannot lose another battle."

"You would rather lose the North to the Wildlings?"

They spoke the words tiredly as though they'd had the conversation before, and Gendry could tell that Stannis spoke with far less conviction than Davos. And he knew that the decision had already been made.

"We will go North," Stannis said bitterly.

Davos nodded, relief evident in the slope of his shoulders.

"And the boy?"

Two sets of eyes studied him interestedly, one with concern and the other with hard determination.

"He comes with us."

Davos looked ready to argue, but he seemed to think better of it and swallowed his words, instead. With apologies written all over his face, he looked at Gendry sadly. With a deferred sense of reprieve, Gendry was grateful that the decision of his fate had been postponed at the very least.

* * *

Once the decision had been made, there was no turning back. They left the very next day. Gendry wasn't a hostage anymore, but he wasn't free, either. Shireen had wept when she'd heard that they were leaving. She was expected to remain behind with her mother. It pained Gendry to leave her. He had begun to think of her affectionately, and she was the only person who had been nice to him since his arrival at Dragonstone.

As he helped to pack the ship, he glanced up at the austere façade of his former prison. He was leaving one terrifying situation to face an even scarier and more unknown one. Stannis' men didn't speak to him. They only looked sidelong at him, suspicion evident on all of their faces.

When everything had been loaded and all the preparations had been made, Gendry boarded one of the ships, his heart heavy with foreboding and dread. Melisandre came to stand beside Stannis at the bow, and she turned to look at Gendry, her lips slightly pulled up into her maddening smile. A hot surge of hatred for the woman went through his veins. It was her fault that he was here. Inexplicably, she held some sort of power over Stannis, and she was guiding them all in a very dangerous direction.

* * *

**So I'm super-tempted to keep going and post another chapter tonight. I think I will pursue this urge! I've become weirdly disenchanted with writing over the last couple of days, but I'm back on track now. I think I sometimes get overwhelmed by everything that I want to get out, and then I freak myself out and get writer's block. Or something. **

**And seriously y'all, we need to get back with Solemn Jon and the Bran Clan. I know, I know, it's entirely in my control. I need to get it together and WRITE!**


End file.
